All I Have To Do Is Dream
by Lilian Katora
Summary: After the events of 'Death In Heaven', Clara decides to leave everything she knows behind and moves to America where trouble follows her, and she winds up crossing paths with two hunters, and their destiny. Trouble is...Why is Satan himself involved? And why is she so fascinated by the fallen angel who's supposedly the root of all evil? Is there another side to this story?
1. Make Your Own Kind of Music

**A/N: Okay. this pairing comes from another story I read that I absolutely fell in love with because of the pairing, called 'They Said Loving The Devil Was Impossible' and I suggest everyone go check it out. It's pretty interesting stuff. **

**I haven't really written in Clara's perspective before, but I'mma try and do my best. I apologize in advance for any out of character moments. **

**Anyway, enjoy, and please tell me what you think! I'd love to hear from you guys!**

Death was an odd thing. The idea of someone passing from one world to…whatever there was after death was a startling concept to have to comprehend.

The first few days after that horrible day in which she had found Danny's broken form being carried away into an ambulance had been…confusing. She had tried to pretend things were okay at first. She continued her classes at Coal Hill though her boss and her Gran had advised against it. She continued reading her book, 'The Art of Zen', and finished it by the end of the week. She even went grocery shopping, managing to catch an episode of Smallville when she finished dinner.

Clara was fascinated with American television, but if she had to be specific, she was fascinated with this one. She happened to catch sight of the DVD's while out shopping one day, and curious, decided to check the show out. The show had stopped airing several years ago, in its tenth season. She didn't mind being behind with the times. There was no pressure, after all, to catch up with episodes and discuss them with friends later. She was happy to watch at her own pace, which was a slow one, since she was often laden with essays, and tests to mark.

But she liked Smallville. There was something about the whole mythology of Superman that fascinated her, and if she had to be honest, that Clark Kent reminded her a bit of the Doctor. Always saving everyone, but never asking for anything for it.

But of course, she couldn't continue watching Smallville when the reality of her situation had finally hit her.

She remembered the exact moment when she had broken down.

It had been in her English class, and they were reading Julius Caesar. She loved Julius Caesar. Taught it every year, more as a habit now, than out of obligation to the curriculum.

A student had been reading one of the monologues, and it was the strangest thing-when the student paused, taking in a breath to continue the passage, she snapped.

The tears had burst forth out of their own will. Like a broken dam, with nothing to stop the coming onslaught.

She had been forced to take a leave of absence due to her 'unstable state'. She was grateful. Looking at all those stunned faces of her students at her outburst and all those pitiful glances her co-workers gave her when she left made her want to punch something. Didn't they all have something better to do than stare at her?

Her flat had been a nice shelter from the world. From all those prying eyes, and _opinions. _As if they knew anything about her and Danny. As if it were any of their business to chime in their own thoughts on the matter. This wasn't politics where anyone could voice what they wanted to say. This was her life, for God's sake, and it certainly wasn't something that could be viewed like a political scandal.

So she holed herself in her bedroom, moving only to eat, and go to the bathroom. She remembered mundane things, like showering, but she had been so tuned into the grief she had no recollection of doing them.

Her gran visited every day, attempting to comfort her when her thoughts grew too dark.

God, she had been such a _mess. _Numb, unflinching, and alone, mostly preferring it that way.

When she had phoned the Doctor, asking for a favor, she knew how things could go down. There was always the possibility she would be pushed out of his life for what she planned to do, but in all honesty, she did not give a damn about the Doctor. She needed Danny back, and if using her best friend to do this was the only way then…well….she'd do anything.

But of course…things hadn't gone to plan. The world was taken over by all those cold, metal, _things and Danny had been one of them. _Kate Stewart's father, too. Her mother. The Doctor's old friends…everyone who had ever died brought back by such a horrible, mad woman.

She had wanted to… Oh, God, she had wanted to. Everything was telling her to. The rushing thoughts. The quickened pulse… a sharp intake of breath…finger poised to push the button.

But the Doctor had stopped her. Saved her from potentially making the worst mistake of her life. At first, she didn't care. It was only when she remembered the sacrifice Danny had made, and all those times that she had told him she loved him (too few times) that stayed her hand.

She had had the mad urge to pour all her despair and anger into that one act. It was all that bloody woman's fault, so she deserved to die. At least, that was what she had thought then. Now...

The meeting in the café had been…a goodbye, she supposed. The Doctor would finally return home, something he had been aching for so long. She has happy for him. At least someone got a happy ending out of all this.

Why had she lied? After that night in her flat's hallway, with Danny bringing back that boy, she decided right then that she needed to move on. The only way she could was by leaving her past behind…and that included the Doctor. Him finding Gallifrey had been just the excuse she needed. Now he had something to live for, he no longer needed her.

And that was okay.

She didn't go back to teaching. Instead, she did something that would've surprised her if she hadn't been through so many insane situations with the Doctor, and Danny. Moving out of her flat, and out of London, was her first step. Leaving England altogether, and making for America had been a whim, really. A passing fancy she had grasped hold of, and held on to.

Saying goodbye to Gran had been painful. Her dad led his own life, now, with that wife of his. Her Gran, besides her dad and her friends, had no one else. Clara had been the only _'normal' _person in a mad London that ran its city like clockwork, its contents constantly moving, and shifting its pace-_living _at a pace Clara just couldn't do. Her gran could have a normal conversation with her about normal things.

'Course, it didn't help that her gran had the same definition of normal as herself. No wonder they stuck out like a worn boot along a rack of shiny, polished ones.

Clara always managed a tiny smile when she thought of her Gran. At least with her, she could _allude _to if not explicitly state her adventures with the Doctor.

But as always, her gran had understood her need to be rid of London. She had even jokingly referenced an American film, Thelma and Louise, and suggested she be Thelma, and Clara be Louise, and they both leave London together, and ride the highways of America.

It was a nice thought, but her gran had also understood Clara's desire for her own company. She had been through the same thing, long ago. Like any mild wound, they needed to be healed on their own. Like a cut, or a scrape. Nothing life-threatening, but the scar would be there, reminding you of the pain that you suffered, even if it was only a temporary one.

Her Gran hadn't been saying Clara's pain was a 'mild wound', but she did recognize that she wouldn't be any help hanging off her shoulder, constantly watching to see if she'd fall apart again. So she let her granddaughter leave.

…

The plane ride was long. And boring. With too much time on her hands to think about things, specifically about the people she was leaving behind, Clara brought out her old mix-tape.

Placing some headphones over her ears, and ignoring the chattering man beside her talking to another guy on her left (she sat in the middle) about real estate, she laid back and lost herself in music.

_'__Nobody can tell ya  
There's only one song worth singin'  
They may try and sell ya  
'Cause it hangs them up  
To see someone like you…'_

She hadn't listened to this mix tape since high school. She had considered leaving it behind with her other stuff, but something about the worn tape with the messy handwriting of her youth, with the faded yellow paper that curled at the edges and the funny title she once called the tape ('Songs That Escape Time and Laugh At It') compelled her to keep it. She was glad she did.

_'__You're gonna be nowhere,  
The loneliest kind of lonely  
It may be rough goin'  
Just to do your thing  
The hardest thing to do_

_But you've gotta make your own kind of music_  
_Sing your own special song_  
_Make your own kind of music_  
_Even if nobody else sings along…_'

Attaining her work visa was the easy part. It was actually figuring out what to do once she landed that had her sighing in frustration.

'_Make your own kind of music  
Even if nobody else sings along…'_

But she had enough confidence in herself that she'd be able to pull it off. After all, London, the Doctor, and Danny were all behind her now. She could finally say she was out of the waters now...right?

Regardless of what would happen next, Clara was going to ignore the future. Her only concern was the present, and she was going to live in it, and not anywhere else.


	2. Scissor Sisters

It took her solid two weeks of living in a hotel to find a flat-no, apartment since that was what they called it here-and actually settle into this new place. Her new home.

It was, in a word, alright. Nothing too special. She was just grateful to actually find a place. The downside to moving whimsically to a new country was forgetting to find suitable housing for herself.

She missed her flat back h-no, London. Chicago was her home, now. But her old flat had been more spacious…and at least there were no noisy neighbours who were constantly at a struggle for power in their relationship, she guessed. Whatever their reason for fighting was, she just wished they would stop it already. If she could find a job that paid well, she'd need the sleep.

Clara sighed. _Right. No dwelling on the past. Focus on the now, remember? _Pushing her thoughts of London and her old flat to the back of her mind, she began to unpack.

It was a simple, stripped apartment, with nothing but her two suitcases, and couple of bags her only possessions to declare her residency.

Pursing her lips, she surveyed the tiny, one room apartment, with carpeted floors (save for loo and kitchen) and pale, peach walls. With the last bit of her money, she'd have to go and get a bed, and if not a bed, at least a cot, some blankets, and groceries.

She checked her account, and with the move to this country of politicians, religion, and Kardashians, she was alarmed to learn she only had a few hundred dollars-everything was converted to dollars before she moved, having transferred all her savings to an American account she had set up in Chicago. That was just enough for what she needed.

She checked her watch. If she hurried, there'd still be enough time for her to buy everything she needed, and come back to the apartment before it got too dark.

Chicago seemed like an interesting place, and once she unpacked, she made a mental note to explore it, but not now, and especially not at night when she didn't know the place.

She grabbed her coat, apartment keys, and hurriedly fled the building to catch a cab.

…

Two hours later, she had a cot, blankets, pillows, towels, toiletries, and enough groceries to last her for at least two weeks.

With just the last twenty dollars left in her pocket, she went back home in a cab, and unpacked.

Plugging into her mixtape, she began by setting up her cot in her room, dragging her suitcases in with her.

She smiled, nodding her head along to the song.

_"__But I don't feel like dancin' when the old Joanna plays. My heart could take a chance but my two feet can't find a way__…" _

There were a few songs she liked by the Scissor Sisters, this being one.

She shuffled her feet, matching her steps with the beat. Methodically, she set up her sleeping quarters, carefully soothing her big, comfy blankets over the smaller, thinner ones. She placed her suitcases beside the cot, not bothering to open one, because of the lack of dressers. Clara opened the other, grabbing some pictures, and placing them on the windowsill by the cot.

Before she knew it, she had her bedroom sorted, having hung up some pictures of her friends and family on the walls. She had left them behind, yes, but she didn't want to forget them.

With the Scissors Sisters still jamming loudly in her ears, Clara's eyes caught on a picture she had left in her suitcase.

Picking it up, she smiled sadly when she remembered the time the picture had been taken.

The Doctor, this was back before the acerbic, and often unfriendly alien she now knew existed, had knocked on her door to take her out for another adventure.

"_Clara! You ready?"_

_"__Ready for what?" He took Clara by surprise showing up on her doorstep. _

_"__The adventure of a lifetime! Come along! You don't want to miss it!"_

_She rolled her eyes when he took her hand, and guided her out the door leaving her with barely enough time to shut it. Typical Doctor. Always doing the least expected thing, and expecting everyone else to follow him. To be fair, though, it was much more exciting doing things his way. _

_Clara had to grin at the prospect of another adventure. _

_When they were in the Tardis, she decided to ask the question. _

_"__Doctor?"_

_He was running around the controls, pressing buttons, and pulling levers at a chaotic speed, beaming that Clara was with him. _

_"__Yes, Clara?"_

_"__Why'd you come today?"_

_He didn't pause in his movements. Instead, he typed a few coordinates into the console._

_"__Why d'you think? I was bored, and naturally, I thought you were bored, so I rang your bell, and…well, here we are."_

_"__No," Clara stopped him before he could pull the last lever, the one she knew would signal the Tardis to take off. "I mean, I wasn't expecting you until Tuesday."_

_He frowned. _

_"__It's Tuesday…isn't it?"_

_She shook her head, laughing. _

_"__No, you idiot. It's Sunday. You're a little early."_

_"__Oh. Oh. Well, you didn't look busy. Were you busy? I can never tell with you."_

_"__How-never mind. No, I wasn't busy. But-" A thought struck Clara. It was true that she hadn't been busy when the Doctor showed up, but she had been about to make plans with someone and…well, she wondered..._

_"__But what?"_

_"__I was thinking... Maybe I should take you on an adventure for once. You're always showing me all these wonderful planets, and galaxies. Why don't I return the favor?"_

_He scratched his chin, bringing attention to it without meaning to it. Clara fought a smirk. Chin-boy. God, you really could fence with that chin, couldn't you?_

_"__I don't see why not. Where do you want to go?" He made to pull the lever, but she stopped him again._

_"__No. No Tardis today, Chin-boy."_

_"__Chin-boy? What? My chin is not-"_

_Clara giggled, tousling his already floppy hair. _

_"__Yes, it is. Now shut up, 'cause I've got a surprise for you." And before her favourite time lord with a chin as enormous as all those planets he had shown her and then some could protest, she was already doing what he did to her mere minutes ago: dragging him along, and not telling him a thing about where they were going._

_Clara was smiling from ear to ear when she thought about the surprise. Yes, this was going to be a fun night._

The fun in question had taken place in a packed, crowded pub, and the surprise had been karaoke.

She stared at the smiling picture of them. Somehow, by some miracle, she had gotten the Doctor very drunk that night. In the picture, their arms were looped together, and he was in midst of placing a kiss on top of her head, while she protested, giggling. Behind them was a lit stage with a young performer, guitar strapped to herself.

Getting him drunk had been the first part of the surprise. The Doctor hated karaoke, and that hadn't changed much in his twelfth form, so alcohol had been needed to stymy his fears of public singing.

When he had starting singing spontaneously old songs she didn't recognize, but was bobbing away happily anyway, she knew that it was time to enact part two of her surprise.

_She pulled him to the stage, and asked what he wanted to sing. His answer was quite surprising: _

_"__Ohh, yeah, yeah, Clara. Clarrrra. Clara. You've got to promise to sing with me. Promise."_

He had looked so earnest, with those sincere brown eyes, and the way his lips pulled together in a drawn out smile. She couldn't possibly say no to him then.

_"__Fine. I promise," she answered, smiling just as wide._

_He whispered the song in her ear, and she in turn played telephone with the guy operating the karaoke machine. He nodded, fiddling with the controls, before a familiar pop tune rolled through the air, emanating several cheers from the audience. _

_Rolling her eyes, Clara grabbed an extra mic, and started to sing. _

_"__Yo, I'll tell you what I want, what I really really want, So tell me what you want, what you really really want…" Of all the songs…_

_The Doctor had borrowed someone's hat, and had placed it on backwards. His bowtie was missing, and his hair a little disheveled. Oh, well. _

_He chimed in with the words, "So tell me what you want, what you really really want, I wanna, I wanna, I wanna, I wanna, I wanna really really really wanna zigazig ah…"_

They had gotten through the song, but just barely. Clara had to keep trying to stifle laughter, and the Doctor had plowed through the entire song, singing it as he were Susan Boyle. It was amazing, really. By the time they finished, she was clutching her side, gasping for breath from all the giggles, and he was bowing to the drunken applause from their enthusiastic audience.

When they went back to a table, Clara had wanted to capture the moment, so she whipped out her camera phone, and took a quick pic of them both.

Both their eyes were a little shiny, and their cheeks flushed. They were grinning wide, and looked like they had the best night of their lives.

_"__We are like the Scissors Sisters, aren't we?" He made to straighten his bowtie, but when his hands met only air, he frowned, and proceeded to twiddle his thumbs. _

_Clara shook her head. _

_"__Whoa. We are __**not **__like the Scissors Sisters. You're too weird, and I'm too short."_

_"__You are short." He agreed. "But the Scissors Sisters! We could start a band, and call ourselves the Scissors Sisters: Act Two."_

_"__Okay, now you're definitely weird. We can't be act two!"_

_"__Why not?"_

_"__Well, for one thing," She spluttered, racking her brain for reasons to kick the Doctor out of their so-called 'band'. "-you can't sing."_

_"__I can too!"_

_"__You haven't listened to yourself, have you?"_

_She smirked when he got all flustered, got up, and mumbled something about getting them more drinks before storming off. _

The Doctor didn't like to drink-but that night had been fun. She had finally seen him drunk. He was more of an idiot when he was drunk, if his Scissors Sisters comment was anything to go by on.

She sighed at the picture. God, what was she doing? _I can't keep doing this. Gotta move on sometime. _

Stowing the picture away back in her suitcase, she grabbed the rest of her pictures from the walls, and put them away too. There. That was better. No reminders.

Clara felt suddenly very tired then. _Exhausted would be a better word. _She quickly tore off her headphones, shutting her mixtape off, and changed into her pajamas. She flopped on her back on the cot, closed her eyes and pretended to sleep.

She jumped when she head a muffled crash from somewhere above her. Sitting up, Clara peeked at her watch, groaning when she saw it was 2 am.

Her mind was fuzzy with the afterthoughts of her dreams. Shaking her head clear, she tried to remember what had woken her up in the first place.

_Right. Crash. Above. _

She jumped again when another crash sounded, this time outside. Running to her window, she could clearly see a dark shape fly past her at an alarming speed. Gasping, she stepped back, not sure exactly what she was seeing.

_Was that a…No…it couldn't-_

Footsteps ran across the floor above her bedroom, and she could discern two grown men yelling. One was yelling for the other to hurry the hell up before they missed their opportunity.

Clara frowned. She looked out the window, eyes glazing over the paint-chipped bricks from the other buildings, and the rust-encrusted fire escapes, darkened streets before landing on the shape she had seen fall seconds earlier. It was groaning, a clear indicator it was injured. Or rather _he, _since she now saw that it was person.

Two men came running out her apartment building, one ridiculously tall, and the other shorter, and from the looks of it, angrier.

The shorter one grabbed the man on the ground, and shoved him roughly against a wall below, yelling for 'Sam' (she guessed this was the giraffe-guy) to grab his knife.

Her heart started to pound uncomfortably. These guys were obviously going to kill the other guy. Oh, god. Oh, god. Oh, God.

_What would the Doctor do? _Clara frowned. _No, what would I do?_

Not waiting for an answer, she pushed open her window, and climbed onto the fire escape. 'Sam' had gotten out his knife, apparently having hidden it in his inner jacket pocket. He tossed the knife to Shorty over by the wall, and that was when Clara knew she had to act or else the poor man would die.

_Oh, god. What the hell am I getting myself into? _

She quickly calculated the angle, and the drop. If the guy with the knife caught her fall, the worst she'd end up with was a fractured ankle. Maybe even a broken leg. But she'd be _alive. _

"Please let this work," she whispered before climbing over the railing and jumping as far as she could in hopes of landing on the short guy.

"Dean, watch out-" Sam yelled, right before Clara collided with 'Dean'. He made a disgruntled, out of breath noise as he fell back.

Somewhere behind her, she heard someone whisper "Thanks, girl," before the sound of running footsteps fading away the farther they got.

"Dean-"

"Run…After…" He managed, before pushing Clara off of him. He coughed. "What the hell? Are you insane?"

Clara groaned, a dull pain in her head taking up most of her attention. _The man got away…Good. _

"Do you make it a friggin' habit of jumping off fire escapes or…" He paused. "Or… shit. _Shit!"_

Clara attempted to sit up, but the reaction her body got made her scream.

She looked down, and was horrified to see blood staining her t-shirt.

_I'm going to die. I'm going to die for saving that man…_

Dean, who Clara failed to notice had torn off the ends of her shirt, was now pressing the ripped cloth firmly to her wound.

"Stay with me, you damned crazy chick," he muttered.

"What are you talking-" _I'm still here…_ It hit, hard and fast, not leaving her time to think, or finish her sentence.

She could hear him calling her 'crazy chick' before she was pulled under.


	3. FBI Agents

She woke to find herself alone. She didn't realize that at first. No, the first thing she noticed was that she was in a very white, very _clean _room.

_I'm dead, aren't I? I died. This is me. Dead. _

Clara moved to sit up, but a pain in her side made her wince and lay back down again. _Ow. Why does being dead hurt so much?_

She let out a small puff of breath. _White room. Clean. Scrubbed down. Hang on. _She observed the light blue cotton curtains hanging over the window, the obviously bleached floors, and the empty chairs to her right, the kind of chairs she imagined were torture to the spine.

Absentmindedly, she touched her arm, surprised when her fingers connected with a thin, plastic tube. There was a dark, murky substance in the tube. Frowning, she followed the tube up her arm, off the edge of her bed, bridging and eventually disappearing into a bag that was halfway filled with the same dark substance.

Drawn conclusion: she was in a hospital evidently _not dead, _but _painfully _alive.

"Good. You're up now. The doctor's let me in. They say you're doing fine, so that's good I guess. I mean, if you're into the whole 'recovery' thing." The figure at the door caught her attention. She was surprised to see the same, short angry man she had seen the night before. A brief image of him dragging a terrified man up against the wall shot through her mind.

She glared at him.

"It's 'Dean' right?"

"How'd you-"

She waved him off.

"Please. That skyscraper beside you last night yelled 'Dean' and looked in your direction. It's not that big a leap. I'm sure even _you _would be able to figure that out."

Dean leaned against the door, shaking his head.

"Listen, crazy chick, I don't know what you think you saw last night, but it didn't happen."

"Excuse me?" _Of course he's going to try and cover it up. _

He stepped inside the room then, closing the door behind him. As he approached the bed, Clara could make out even more details about the man. He had green eyes-with just a bit of hazel lingering around the iris. Though he appeared young at the doorway, the closer he got the more she realized just how _worn _he seemed. Like the weight of the world rested on his shoulders…a look not dissimilar to the one she had seen on the Doctor's face more than a few times.

Oddly enough, as if to reconcile the rough and tumble look, Dean wore a suit. A suit. A clean, simple, black suit. She half-expected him to be carrying a badge with him, or something.

"You heard me. What you saw last night didn't happen." He was now at the edge of her bed, arms crossed. His look then seemed to say, 'I dare you to say otherwise.'

Clara hadn't ignored that look. His 'tough guy' stance, the kind in action films where the actor pretends to be tall by puffing out his chest, and doing the '_Try me.' _glare Clint Eastwood perfected, struck a nerve in Clara. If anything, it made her want to punch the guy.

Instead, she only managed a brisk laugh, wincing when her stomach muscles contracted around the 'pain area'.

"Do you honestly think the bad boy routine will work? I don't care if we're in a hospital. I'm not going to do what you say, so you might as well kill me."

Dean's eyes widened.

"You really are crazy, aren't you?"

"Crazy? You're calling _me _crazy after what you almost did last night? You should look at yourself in a mirror, 'cause you're obviously not seeing what I'm seeing."

"If I had a nickel for every time some idiot got it wrong…" He mumbled under his breath, obviously irritated by her comment.

"Yeah, that does tend to happen when someone happens by an attempted murder scene."

"Attempt-Attempted _murder_?" Dean wrung his hands together. "Are all English people really that stupid, or is that just a quirk of yours?"

Clara exploded. "Are all Americans this arrogant, and this clinically insane, or is that just a personality _quirk of yours?"_

"Screw it." Dean waved her off. "You're hot, but this whole 'crazy thing'," His index fingers pulled together in air quotes'. "-you've got going here ain't working for me. Maybe Sam'll have better luck. _Jesus." _He stalked off, leaving her protesting, and infuriated.

"Well, you better run!" She yelled after him, knowing he could hear her. "Otherwise I might just…" Again with the frowning. Realistically, what _would _she do? Judging by the way he just grabbed that guy last night, Dean's advantage was that he was physically stronger than her. And angry. In her experience, that was never a good combination.

Besides, even _if _she matched him in strength, she still couldn't move without wanting to scream for the doctor. _A doctor. Not the Doctor. _

Lifting the hospital blanket, she inspected the bandages pressed to her side. Gingerly, she poised a finger over the bandage, and pressed, wincing when a nasty white heat burned her side.

_Maybe I shouldn't have bothered to jump. _The thought startled her. _No, that Dean guy would have killed the poor man. It's good I interfered…_

The door clicked open, and this time, the tall Moose entered. He was also sporting a suit.

"Hi," he stated, bringing a chair to the side of her bed, and sitting down. "You're awake."

She only nodded.

"Sorry about my partner. He can be-"

"A jerk?"

He smiled, eyes lighting up at the corners in a way that suggested an inside joke. Clara hated those. She never got the punchline in those kinds of jokes, and when she did, they weren't that funny. Being left in the dark, even in something as mild as closeted humour, was not a very pleasant feeling.

This guy had nice eyes. Like Dean's they viewed the world as if already having seen it, but unlike his, they were a soft brown. Soft. _Kind_.

"Yeah." He brought out a wallet, and flipped it open for her to see. "I'm agent Sam Higgins, and my partner out in the hall is Dean Mathews."

Clara stared at Sam in amazement. Agents? She glanced at the badge he was practically thrusting in her face, watching him tuck it back inside his jacket pocket before she could actually _read_ the bloody thing_. F.B.I agents? What game are they playing?_

"Agents…"

"Yeah. I'm sorry for what happened to you, by the way. Dean says that you jumped on him last night…off of a fire escape?"

"I did, yeah. He was trying to kill a guy. You were there too."

The muscles in Sam's face tensed.

"You caught us undercover last night."

Clara rolled her eyes.

"Sure I did. Is that why you had that weird knife with the symbol on it?"

She didn't remember much from the other night, but she could recall the very distinctive instructions Sam had yelled at Dean. She remembered him tossing a knife (_Who tosses a knife?! Lunatics.) _to his 'partner'. From the second she glimpsed the knife, she had thought she saw a symbol carved on it. But in all honesty, she wasn't sure she actually did.

She hadn't exactly gotten a clear reading of the knife, anyway. As the Doctor would probably have put it, a second "is nothing to a time lord." Absolutely nothing. But to a human…a second is infinitely more meaningful. You couldn't do a lot in a second. In fact, the only things you could do in a second were breathing, and…well, blinking.

Still, though. Humans had limited lifespans, and didn't every pop song nowadays mention that 'every second counts? 'Course, most of that was in the context of hard and heavy partying, but she liked taking things out of contexts.

As meaningful as seconds were to Clara, she didn't quite trust them. There just wasn't enough _time _to really see anything.

So she had gambled with Sam on the idea of a symbol being carved onto the knife.

Perhaps a second jumping off a fire escape wasn't enough time to properly view something as small and moving as a tossed knife, but a second in a hospital staring at the expressions of a man who claimed to be an F.B.I agent was just enough time to get her answers.

"What symbol?" _Yeah. He's lyin'. Just as he's lying about being an F.B.I agent. _

So Sam was going to play dumb. Clara could do the same thing.

"No, wait." Clara smiled, tapping her temple with her index finger. "Still a little delirious from all the drugs. Sorry. I'm not quite sure what I saw last night."

The tension in Sam's face disappeared.

"Right. So, tell me…" Sam paused a moment, an expectant expression waiting before her. Her brows pulled together in confusion.

"Tell you what?"

Sam sighed.

"Your name for starters."

"Clara."

"Clara…?"

"Clara Oswald."

"Where are you from, Clara?"

"You want to say it, don't you?" She smirked.

"Say what?"

"You know…" Clearing her throat, she imitated a deep, southern twang. "'_You're not from around these parts, are you?'"_

Sam laughed.

"It's tempting. I'm going to go out on a limb here and guess that you're not from 'around these parts'."

Again, she had to roll her eyes.

"Liverpool, actually."

"In England, right?"

"Right."

"What are you doing here all the way in Chicago?"

She shrugged.

"New start."

"From what, exactly?"

Clara cleared her throat.

"Are all F.B.I agents this nosy? I moved here because I wanted a change of pace…that's all." She mentally cringed at the defensiveness in her tone.

Sam must've picked up on that. His next question, despite her obvious reluctance to answer, was something on an entirely new scale of '_Shut up, please'. _

"Are you living here on your own?" _He wants to know if there is anyone else that I could possibly tell about last night. _

Immediately, she nodded.

"Just me."

"Listen, I want to apologize for you landing here in the hospital. Something like that rarely happens on a case. I can't give you the exact details of our case, but I _can_ tell you that you interfered in it by jumping off that fire escape." There was a slight hint of annoyance in Sam's tone. Interesting.

"Oh, really?"

"Unfortunately, our…pursuit escaped, and it was…directly from your interference. This is a felony. In this type of situation," He dropped his voice to barely above a whisper. "-we might have to deport you back to England."

If they weren't actual agents, then the threat he was making now was empty. But if she was somehow wrong about her readings on the two 'partners', then…she was screwed.

"Don't do that. Please." Thoughts of double decker buses, and busy people running around was enough to get her more than a little panicked.

Sam nodded appreciatively.

"And I don't want to. Trust me. So, let's make a compromise. You promise to never mention a word of what happened last night to anyone, and I'll-I mean, we, Dean and I, will let you off the hook." Sam chanced a smile. "How does that sound?"

Clara bit her lip.

If everything went to hell because she was wrong about these two, her goal at living a new, fresh life would be pulverised to a pulp.

Ego aside, she was never wrong when it came to initial impressions of people. When the Doctor had come knocking on her doorstep in that ridiculous monk's robe, she had thought him stark raving mad, but something about him made her impart an implicit trust in him. She couldn't explain in it exactly. But he had that sort of 'aura'. That same instinct, intuition, or whatever you called it that drove her to make quick, but honest judgements was telling her there was something off about these so called F.B.I agents.

Something about the way they acted, and held themselves didn't betray in one instance the same earnest urgency in F.B.I agents.

There was also the fact that they were there in the hospital with her solely to shut her up. That forced her hand.

"Sounds good."

…

Sam and Dean soon left after that. By then, Clara decided she needed more info on those two boys.

_This counts as moving on…right? I'm not technically wound in the past… This research thing can be a hobby._

But the fast paced life in the Tardis, and in London had been exactly the thing she was moving on from. Would researching these two F.B.I 'agents' be moving on? Perhaps. As long as she kept her research as a side project, and found an actual job to keep herself busy, and also filled in her apartment, then it would be okay. She hoped.

Since she couldn't do much from lying around in a bed all day, she made feeble, but valiant attempts at recovery. Within a few days, she was discharged with an aching side, and a massive hospital bill. Besides those causes for grief, she was otherwise okay.

The subway was the only means of transportation she could afford. It was okay. _Not that much different from the tube. _

Clara rested her head against the window, closing her eyes. If she kept still, just like this, and ignored the other people around her-especially the animatedly chattering woman next to her, and the coughing man behind her, she could pretend moving on wasn't as bloody difficult as it actually was.

An automated voice called out her station. Sighing, Clara slowly stood to her feet, careful with the way she manoeuvered around people. She stepped out into the platform, rubbing her arms. She had been discharged with her p.j. bottoms and a new cotton shirt. Needless to say, it was chilly.

Making her way to the outside street, she walked up a few steps until somewhat familiar street signs appeared in front of her. _Only a few blocks to go. _

She missed her tape. She missed home.

_Stop it. Moving on, remember?_ Stripping herself of all physical reminders of her past (except for the pictures) and even moving to a different country wasn't helping. _It's just time. I need to give myself more time to adjust. _

Damn it. She needed a distraction. Which meant…researching the boys was going to be more than a hobby.

Laughing to herself at her own inability to function without distractions, she continued walking, her thoughts getting swept up in her mind like the brief, but ever present chill of the Chicago night air.

…

Getting back into her apartment was going to be tricky. Clara walked up to her building, and it was then when she realized the ramifications of her actions in the fire escape. She had no key. She had left the window open. Which meant…

Panicking, Clara rang one of the apartment numbers, hoping someone would answer.

"…_hello? Who's this?"_

"Hi, I'm really sorry to bother you but I locked myself out of my apartment and I-"

"_Say no more_…" There was a short buzz, before Clara reached for the door, and pulled, relieved when it opened.

"Thank you!"

"_Don't mention it, Clara."_ She froze when she heard her name. Several things ran through her head. Someone was watching her. Someone knew her name. What else did they know?

Clara glanced at the button she had pressed. 107C. The apartment above hers. The same one she had heard all the scuffling noises the night she met Dean and Sam.

A feeling of unease settled over her.

_Don't panic. You moved in a week ago. Maybe someone asked around about you?_

The uneasiness grew. _Okay. No more thinking about this. Get to your apartment. Quickly. _

Clara took the elevator to her floor. When the doors opened to it, she walked as quickly as she could, wound in her side permitting, to her apartment door.

_Crap. _No key with her. No access. Out of desperation, she tried the handle, and was surprised when it opened.

She pushed opened the door. Her breath hitched in her throat.

Where less than two nights ago she had stood in an empty apartment bereft of any furniture, there was now several posh-looking sofa's in the living room. A beautiful, rectangular glass table with metallic horses acting as supports underneath, stood out amongst the sofas and…a flat screen television?

Warily, Clara stepped into her apartment, and closed the door behind her. Her eyes roved over every inch of surface in the apartment in an attempt to detect any sign of…change. Addition.

Lining some of her walls were tasteful lucrative paintings, and a few decorative mirrors. In the small kitchen, there were pans hanging up on the walls. She peeked inside drawers and cupboards, only to find brand new cutlery and dishes.

_"_Oh. My. Stars_." _She muttered. On the counter, she found a note. On it was scribbled, in messy handwriting,

**In regards to the neat little stunt you pulled for me the other night. Looked in to say my thanks…You've got a shit apartment, so I thought I'd decorate a bit. You can thank my boss for the paintings. He has good taste. **

Once she finished reading, she leaned against the counter for support. Her side ached. She grimaced.

What the hell had she gotten herself involved in?


	4. Help I'm Alive

**A/N: Hey, guy**s! **Sorry for not updating! I've been struggling to figure out where I want to go with this story. I've made outline after outline, but I think I might have an idea. If not, anyone's welcome to PM me their thoughts on where they want the LUCIFER/CLARA pairing to go :) **

**Anyways, enjoy. and thanks so much for the reviews! They mean so much to me-I've never really written for Clara before, or Lucifer. So any constructive thoughts are welcome! **

As soon as she could get rid of the chill that ran down her neck when she read the note, Clara tossed it away in the rubbish bin that had been neatly set up for her by the counter.

_Something's definitely going on. _Mind restored to a place somewhat sane, and safe (as if the act of throwing away the note was some kind of spiritual cleanse that could 'somehow' restore sense and order into her bizarre little world), she immediately went and locked her door.

The fact that someone had broken in while she had been hospitalized, and buzzed in to her apartment by a mysterious neighbour who somehow knew her name (even though she hadn't introduced herself to anyone) freaked her out more than any malicious alien she had encountered on her Tardis travels.

There was just something so inherently frightening about an unknown threat hovering around a person. Like watching a really terrifying horror movie expecting to be scared, but not knowing what precise moment when you're going to be scared. Waiting for the thrill of the fright was like a gamble in a way. You didn't want it happening, and yet, in that strange, inevitable premonition sixth sense human beings have always seemed to possess, you sort of just wanted the scare-fest to hurry up and move on, to be done with the suspense.

God.

What was she going to do now? Go to sleep? She wouldn't have been able to sleep if she had taken one of those odd sleeping pills her Gran took every now and then. It was a point of principle, wasn't it? Not sleeping. How could she, knowing some stranger had broken in carrying in a bunch of furniture?

_Nice furniture, though. _

Creepy as the gesture was, her apartment never looked better.

Somehow, with everything put in its proper place, the apartment finally seemed more...welcoming. A weird juxtaposition considering the circumstances of the origins of the furniture.

But then that also begged the question: If someone could have easily broken in during her stay at the hospital, then said someone could theoretically break in if she were sleeping...right?

Clara shook her away the depressing thought. _No. I'm not going to be one of those scared little girls in those horror films. I can handle this. Just gotta take precautions, that's all._

Plus, there was also the possibility that whomever had buzzed her in could have been thelandlord. He lived in the building. She didn't know specifically which apartment, so it could very well be the one she had buzzed for help.

Squaring her shoulders, but also careful not to stretch the muscles near her ribcage as she moved quickly, she went to the fire escape window and locked it.

Thinking of the window in her bedroom, and the tiny, but still wide enough in size for a tiny body to squeeze through, one in the bathroom, she ran to both, sliding the lock in place like a businessman striking a deal. Quick. Efficient. Not leaving any time for second-guessing.

On entering her bedroom, she was shocked to find her cot gone, and replaced with a queen-sized bed with an added wooden headboard. The blankets were the same ones she had purchased, but the sheets had been replaced with white silk, the expensive-looking kind she imagined the queen would sleep in.

"This is really getting creepy, now." She muttered to herself. Then a thought struck her. She tensed, wondering whether or not to act on the thought. Would the mysterious benefactor have gotten _everything _for her? Judging by the kitchen utensils and the living room furniture, all bets were off.

She inched towards the small closet, not quite sure what to expect. Perhaps a serial killer would jump out at her, and slice her to bits like in those films.

No one would find her body for weeks. She'd just decay, slowly, day by day, and by the time anybody actually bothered to find her, she'd just be rotting pile of flesh with her killer on the loose somewhere.

"Stop it, now you're just deliberately trying to scare yourself."

The palms of her hands started to sweat, tingling with that same manic energy that appeared whenever situations like this confronted her. It was a weird energy-both ticklish, and slightly painful, the way adrenaline would be sometimes whenever she ran down an exploding corridor in times that now seemed far away and lost.

Bracing herself against whatever was in the closet, Clara fought the sudden urge to run away and hide. Before the Doctor, and especially before Danny, as a young girl Clara had always been very impressionable. It didn't take much to scare her. Even the well-obvious, seen-from-a-mile-away less than pleasant intentions from a school bully still had ill effects on her consciousness.

Hiding seemed like a great option. Just find a place, and stay hidden while the threat passed. It was easy. As a skinny little thing, she had no strength to fight back, so of course it was the only thing she could do.

Sometimes, if a particular thing frightened her, she'd find a really good hiding place-under the clothes in the laundry room or huddling beneath some hedges in the backyard-and it would take hours for her parents to find her.

"Come on, Oswald."

She yanked at the closet door, a scream already in place in her throat. Just in case.

But when the door released in her hand, opened, she had to stifle a giggle at her paranoia. There, resting against the wall on the floor was her suitcase, still packed and ready. No new clothes had been added.

Sighing in relief, Clara relaxed.

...

Unsurprisingly, she slept very little during the night. She had been afraid to sleep in the bed the burglar's hands had touched. Maybe the guy (her benefactor being male seemed statistically more likely, and also, she suspected it might have been the same man she saved when she jumped off the fire escape) actually turned out to be a mass murderer.

Did she really want to sleep on the same bed a mass murderer had touched?

So she ended up lying uncomfortably on the floor, with her blankets, waiting until the pink skies of dawn appeared through her window to finally crash out.

She awoke only a couple hours later. Bleary eyed, and ready to punch someone's eye out, Clara sat up, momentarily forgetting her surroundings. It was when she started to get to her feet, and the pain in her side sang, that she recalled the previous night's discoveries.

She groaned.

Maybe she should phone the police today. That would be the right thing to do, wouldn't it?

_...Too...early...for...__thinking._

Yawning, she ignored this particular train of thought. She shuffled to her newly decorated kitchen, and glanced at the shining coffee pot. A pot of coffee couldn't hurt, could it?

_...be good to..have...some._

Another yawn stretched her mouth wide and open, and caused her head to bend back just slightly, much like a lion yawned.

_Coffee it is then. _

A cup and a booted up laptop later, Clara decided that she might as well make use of the free stuff. Moving to another country with little in the bank account was eye-opening. Her pay-roll at Coal Hill had been well-off, enough so that she could afford her flat to be downtown where all the action apparently happened, and the space inside to be bigger than the one she currently lived in.

Whatever pain she suffered back in London, she had it relatively easy.

It wasn't like she was poor now, but if she didn't get a job soon, she might as well prepare to be shipped back to London. Besides, as much as her paranoid mind wanted to make her believe, Clara sensed the stuff was just a gift.

Nothing serious. No secret bombs beneath the sofas. She knew because she checked.

Funnily enough, she wasn't so freaked out by the furniture anymore. It was tasteful, and free. Well, free for her. Expensive at somebody else's cost. But still free for someone. Perhaps what she needed the whole time was to sleep on the decision.

Laptop ready, she opened up a browser, and immediately began job-hunting.

The laptop was the same one when she had first met the Doctor. Small, yes, but with her technical savvy, it was faster than the ones she had seen her co-workers playing around with at the school.

"_If I can't find them, you definitely can't." He sat across from her, staring intently as if daring her to challenge him. She smirked, only happy to oblige._

_"They uploaded me, remember? I've got computing stuff in my head." She grabbed the laptop, and slid it back to her side again._

_He slid it to his side. "So do I."_

_"I have insane hacking skills." It was so bizarre, the information that just seemed to pour inside her bed about computers. Before, it had seemed like such a difficult puzzle to try and solve. Frustrating, and never working for her, but now...ever since that weird uploaded experience with the spoon-head thing, the dots just seemed to connect._

_"I'm from space and the future with two hearts and twenty seven brains."_

_"And I can find them in under five minutes plus photographs. Twenty seven?" So she was boasting. How could she not? She had just acquired a skill that, if she wanted to, could get her into MI5. If she wanted to._

_"Okay, slight exaggeration."_

_"Coffee, go get. Five minutes, I promise." She rather liked this flirtatious-banter-thing with this strange man, anyway. He was weird, but oddly funny._

"_The security is absolute."  
_  
"_It's never about the security, it's about the people." Unlike anyone she had ever met before. Extraordinary. _

Within about five minutes, she had drawn up every single decent teaching job in the city. A solid minute of debating about the prospect of teaching again, and a face made at the awful thought was enough for her to cross out all the postings.

Right. So she wasn't going to be a teacher anymore.

Her brows furrowed. But she still had her degree to put to use.

Maybe she could just be a well-educated waitress?

Clara laughed.

"Okay, maybe not. But let's not leave every stone unturned." Something her mum used to say.

A couple of intense, focused searches later, and she leaned back in her chair, fruitless.

So she wasn't going to be a teacher, anymore. And definitely not a waitress, either. Hmm. What option _did _that leave her?

"Lorry driver." She muttered, thinking about the assets she had put on her C.V. She had her driver's licence, and it was in a high enough class to operate a vehicle containing commercial goods. Danny never actually believed her when she told him. But legally, she could actually operate a lorry truck.

The idea was so absurd and random, but she took a liking to it. She heard it paid well in America. And even if it didn't pay well, she'd always be on the road anyway. She'd be practically living on it.

Lots of roads to travel...never in one place too long...

Clara smirked. It was definitely absurd to go from teaching at a highly-established school in England to a truck-driver (was that the right term? Eh, she could google it) in America. Stranger things had happened to her, though.

A smile tugged at the corner's of her lips at the thought of the one particular adventure with the Doctor. But the smile disappeared just as quickly as it appeared.

She focused on the screen again.

Tucking a stray strand of her brain locks behind her ear, she picked up her furious typing speed again, this time in search of wanted lorry drivers.

Several hits came up.

Grinning, Clara clicked on one.

...

Four hours later, after having run around the city in search of the job site, and after proven to the employer-a tall, broad shouldered skeptical man-her full competence as a lorry driver, and dependability (which involved heavy flirtation, and an impressive display of her driving skills, along with showing him documented proof she could operate the trucks there, and her work visa) she was hired.

Her assigned trip wouldn't be until the next morning, which gave her a little time to recover a bit from the hospital.

Needless to say, she'd neglected to mention the stitches she had from her stab wound. She figured it'd probably detract from her ability to be hired.

Clara went back home to her apartment, and relaxed on one of the sofas. Leather.

She sat for a few seconds, careful with her stitching, utterly spent from the day of _trying, _and found herself staring curiously up at the ceiling, where, a few nights before, she heard the sound of heavy footsteps running.

_Higgins and Mathews. What case warrants a so-called F.B.I agent to nearly kill a man? _Did their supposed case involve tracking down a terrorist threat? Was that why that Dean fellow was so pissed off with her? Had she interfered in an important case by jumping on him? Well, that was what 'Sam' had told her. Hmm.

A light rattling sound interrupted her thoughts. Curious, she looked up at her quiet apartment. Nothing there.

Sighing, she went back to staring at the ceiling.

None of it made any sense. No F.B.I agents would be reckless enough to kill a terrorist in an alleyway. And anyway, that wasn't their job, was it? F.B.I agents _arrested _threats. They weren't above the law.

Clara frowned. But they sure as hell seemed to think they were.

A quick peek at their credentials on the F.B.I site wouldn't hurt, would it?

Warily, she reached for her laptop, cursing when she realized it was back on the kitchen table.

Sighing, she stood up to go and get it, and was met by the colour of gray.

"Oomph." She mumbled, stumbling back. The gray was a t-shirt beneath a darker over-shirt.

She raised her head until she was met with a pair of playful, green eyes.

The apartment was tiny, which meant it lacked in a great deal of alternative escape route if anything blocked her front door and the hallway window to the fire escape. She'd be trapped, which she was thanks to Creepy Guy over there.

"You come one step closer and I'll hit you so hard you'll..." Clara left the threat unfinished. She had been about to say, 'I'll hit you so hard you'll regenerate' but then she had caught herself.

Whoever this was, he was no time lord she could boss around. Standing roughly five foot eight, tall, but not as tall as that Sam Higgins 'agent' she met at the hospital, he still managed to tower over her. Being as short as she was, anyone over five foot five towered over her. It was frustrating at times to have the taller, model-type friends to have to always crane her neck upwards to get a word in edgewise.

He lifted his hands in surrender, smirking at her threat. She raised her brow at that, peeved that he hadn't taken her seriously.

He was tall. Looking at him more closely, she could see that beneath the playfulness was an inexplicable coolness-an even detachment to the world around him. Bit of unshaven stubble on his cheeks, and chin. So keeping up a clean appearance wasn't his thing. He was also standing less than a foot away from her. Okay.

She backed away a few inches.

"Believe me, sweetheart, I'm not comin' any closer." He said, lowering his hands. He rolled his shoulders, yawning. "Do you mind if I..." His hands, rough, dry, and skin cracked at the knuckles, gestured casually towards the sofa.

Too stunned to really speak, Clara only nodded. Oh, god. There was that familiar tingling sensation in her hands again.

"Great," he sauntered past, still keeping some distance between them, and, with an exaggerated sigh of something like contentment, plopped down on the leather cushion. "You know, or well I guess you wouldn't, would you? The place that I was keeping upstairs still needs to be refurnished. I was thinking of doing something along the lines of urban nightmare-tasteful, and serene-like while at the same time r_eally _creepy. Like stepping into an Edgar Allen Poe story."

He crossed his legs on her table, stretching.

"You like stories, don't you? I mean, you were a teacher, after all. I'm curious-did you ever get to whip out your metric stick and _punish," _at this word, his voice lifted a little. "-any naughty little boys?"

When Clara didn't answer, he sighed, waving her off.

"Oh, right. Sorry. You're probably still wondering if I'm some serial killer ready to cut open your throat." Her breath hitched at the visual. He chuckled.

"Don't worry-I'm not here to kill you. I'm here to _thank _you, actually." He studied her for a moment, contemplating something. The room was once again silent.

Clara could have sworn she heard her own erratic heartbeat in her ears.

_He must be that boss the man I saved was talking about in his note. _

Cautiously, Clara found her voice, and asked, "For what?"

"What do you think for?" He shook his head, the word 'DUH' describing his tone to a tee. "You saved my associate's life from those hunters. Without you, he would have been killed, and I..." He shrugged. "Well, let's just say business for me would be _that _ much harder."

"Hunters? You mean those F.B.I agents."

What the hell was she doing talking to this guy? Never mind what he said about not killing her. She had a distinct feeling-from what, she didn't know-that he was dangerous, and if ticked the wrong way, it could have disastrous results for her.

Head thrown back, his raucous laughter filled the room.

"F.B.I...?" He laughed harder, shaking his head. "You're cute as a button, but you must be dumber than you look because if you believe that bologna than I'm wasting my time here."

Clara bristled at the comment.

"Oi. I don't care who you think you are. Serial killer or not, if you call me 'dumb' one more time, I'm going to make sure that'll be the last words to ever escape your mouth. And even then, I won't be finished with you. You hear me?"

The man grinned, baring surprisingly pearly whites for someone so careless in his appearance.

"You know, you've got a lot of pent up anger there in that little control-freak heart of yours. Nothing original of course, but definitely entertaining."

"Control-what?"

"Control _f-r-e-a-k. _You know. Always having to be 'the man' in all situations. I quite like that in a woman. It's sexy."

"Have you been... _spying_ on me?" Even as she said it, she saw the stupidity in the question.

"Look around you."

The furniture.

"Look." She made sure her voice was even. "I really couldn't care less who you are. I don't w_ant _to know who you are. I'm glad I saved your friend...and thanks for the furniture, really, but...you're creeping me out. Could you just...leave? Please?"

The man looked affronted. Mockingly so. Hell, every expression he made seemed to be a mockery of human emotion.

"I'm offended, Clara Oswald." _Clara Oswald. _She narrowed her eyes at him. Oh, god. He was the voice in the buzzer. "I thought you enjoyed _not knowing things? _From what I heard, wherever there's a mystery, there you'll be at the forefront of it all."

"Who are you? How do you know who I am?"

"What can I say? I'M JUST THAT GOOD." He smirked.

"What do you want with me?" _PhonethepolicePhonethepolicePhonethepolice._

He jumped from the sofa, the abrupt movement catching her off guard.

"I already said my thanks, so I guess that's it. No...hang on. There was something else...oh yeah. Almost forgot." He went over to her, and took her hand in his, placing a demure kiss on it before she could react. "The name's Lucifer. Or Satan, or the Prince of Darkness if you prefer. Personally, I like 'Bringer of Darkness. Has a sexier feel to it, don't you think?"

Clara pulled her hand away.

"Were you dropped as a baby? 'Cause if you were, I am so, so sorry. But you should be put in a mental institution if you really expect me to believe that rubbish."

"There's that anger!" 'Lucifer' smiled. "Unfortunately for some individuals, I wasn't dropped as a baby as you so kindly put it. Nope. I am the one and only Devil. You're welcome to bow."

"I'm calling the police."

He shrugged, as if to say 'go right ahead'. In fact, 'Lucifer' didn't seem too bothered by her declaration. She might as well have shouted to him that she had brown hair, or that roses were red for all the difference it made.

Instead of behaving like a normal serial killer, he simply glanced at his nails and bit them out of boredom when she made for her cell phone.

She expected him to fight or grab her or do something to stop her. But no. He appeared completely relaxed.

She grew genuinely pissed off at his lack of a reaction.

"Why aren't you doing anything to stop me?"

"Hmm?" He focused his attention back to her. "What was that? Oh. Wait a minute. This is the part where I slice you up like hunted game, right?"

Warily, she nodded. _This is the weirdest conversation I've ever had with a serial killer. _

"Sorry, sweetheart. I'm not Dexter. I don't just kill pretty girls like yourself for the hell of it." When he saw that she really was ready to phone the police at his offhanded comment, he quickly added, "Just kidding. I don't kill pretty girls at all." When that didn't work, he continued with a somewhat exasperated sigh, "Hey. I told you. I'm not here to kill you. I'm just here to thank you for what you did back there in the alley. That took some guts, kid. And you didn't get out completely unscathed, did you?"

His gaze dropped down to her side, the one above her left hip.

"I got stabbed. That's what you serial killer types like to hear, right?"

He sighed.

"For the last freaking time I'm not here to kill you. If you really _aren't _as dumb as you look, then you would believe me."

That tingling sensation in her hands hadn't quite gone away, but she was discovering that the more she conversed with this lunatic, the calmer she became.

She crossed her arms.

"Even if I were to believe you're so called 'Lucifer' bringer of darkness, then that would mean you not only did a very creepy thing by breaking into my apartment, but also are the root of all evil in the world. Which is not only _beyond_ insane, but also impossible."

"Why?" 'Lucifer' stepped closer until the tips of his feet touched hers, and the heat of his breath felt on her cheeks. "It's just as plausible as your little adventures with the old man in that blue box."

And her world flipped upside down.

"How do you know about that?" She whispered.

Lucifer grinned. "I love that you don't even bother denying it. That makes things a million times easier for myself."

She glared up at him.

"Okay, okay. Time for some answers. Well, keep up, sweetheart. If I've been spying on you to know that you're not only a control-freak, and wickedly excellent school teacher from Blackpool, then it's not a stretch to learn that I also know about your little mishap with that boyfriend of yours a while back, and your other boyfriend-the ancient one with the attack eyebrows."

So he knew about everything. This...lunatic, this mad man, he knew everything about her. Even about the Tardis, and the Doctor. How long exactly had he been spying on her?

As if reading her mind, he said, "Don't worry. I haven't been spying on you too long. I wasn't made aware of your existence until the night you saved one of my-"

"-associates?" she finished for him.

He nodded.

"Exactly. But your life is very interesting, Clara Oswald."

She looked away.

"I'm serious. Time travel. Space travel. Aliens from other planets, and galaxies...Seeing things beyond your wildest dreams. You've seen more than your fair share of the wonders of the universe, haven't you?"

"I don't understand. What is it exactly you want with me? I don't travel with him anymore. That's..." She blinked away any unhappy tears. She wasn't going to cry about the Doctor. She'd moved on. And besides, she especially wasn't going to break down in front of a Satan worshipper. "That's not what I do anymore."

Lucifer nodded.

"Oh, I know."

"Then what? I saved your friend's life. You said your thanks. I heard you. You can go now."

A soft, appreciative smile glinted in his worn features.

"I can't just leave you here to be a truck driver, can I?" Clara waited for him to go on. It was...mad, in a word, to listen to him, and actually believe what he had to say. But...he knew about things he shouldn't have known about. No one-apart from U.N.I.T knew about the Doctor. He couldn't have gotten his hands on that kind of information in a matter of days unless of course he was genius with computer hacking as she was.

But he didn't strike her as a hacker.

"Like it or not Clara, your destiny lies in greater things than trucks and long, boring roads. I know you think you're done with a better life-an interesting life, but I don't think you are."

"What makes you say that?"

"Well," he exhaled. "You haven't called the police on me yet, have you? And..." He grasped her hand again, but instead of placing his lips to it he held it in his own. "You could have pushed me away by now, but you didn't. I think..." He twined his fingers through hers, brushing the top of her hand with his thumb. The nervous tingling in her hands intensified to an electrifying buzz. "-you believe me."

Swallowing her nervousness, she cleared her throat to steady herself.

"I don't think I do, actually."

He raised a brow.

"Yeah?"

"Y-yeah."

"Is this proof enough?"

Pulling her shirt up-to Clara's protest-he placed a hand on her stitches, and a white, hot light bolted from his hand. The light dimmed after a few seconds, then went out. Immediately, the ache in her side disappeared.

Clara stared at him, incredulous. Her eyes widened when she saw that the stitches had disappeared, replaced with normal, healthy skin.

"How'd you-"

"I'm Lucifer. I'm still technical an angel, if you remember the Bible correctly." He rolled his eyes. "They got the gist of the story right. I fell from heaven, yadda, yadda, yadda. Became the root of all evil. Blah. Blah. Blah."

"But-"

"Angel. Healing powers. Am I awesome, or _am I awesome_?"

Despite the insanity of the situation, a smile tugged at the corners of Clara's mouth.

"So. Lucifer." She said after a few moments.

"Yup."

"Satan."

"Yeah."

"Prince of Darkness?"

"Bingo."

"And you're standing in my living room...which you bought yourself?"

He nodded.

"Correct. Although, I didn't set it up. I had you guy you rescued do it. He was the one that left the note."

"Yeah, got that far myself, but thanks."

_The Devil's standing in my apartment. I'm in Chicago with the bloody Devil holding my hand. _

A wave of hysteria bubbled to the surface. Backing away from Lucifer, Clara groaned.

"Just a minute. Got to process all of this..."

"And there goes the neighbourhood." He mumbled.

"Devil...Satan. In my apartment... Saved one of his minions...Oh my god."

"Hey. Relax. I already told you did a pretty amazing job at that. Not many would have, but you did."

Clara closed her eyes, and inhaled as much air as she could. She held it in for a few seconds...A few more seconds...A few more seconds...Until he grasped both her shoulders, and commanded in a clear, authoritarian voice,

"Exhale."

Her cheeks deflated as all the air left them.

She opened her eyes again, and there he was still. Lucifer. Green eyes and all.

He was examining her, concern clouding the greens of his irises.

"Better?"

She nodded.

"Much."

"You're not the first to freak out after I let the cat out of the bag."

"I believe that." She let out another breath, this one shakier than the last, and gradually, she calmed herself down. "I don't get it, though."

Another eye-roll from him.

"What don't you get?"

"If you're the Devil, where are the horns? And why aren't you ripping me to shreds? Aren't you supposed to be the root of all evil?"

Chuckling, he only shook his head.

"No horns. Too tacky. And I told you-I'm not Dexter. I don't kill pretty girls. As for the evil part..." He shrugged. "No one's perfect."

Clara giggled.

"Just for your information, trucking's not going to be my profession. I'm not going to back to teaching, and I don't want to be waitress, either. Tried that in my third year at UNI, and...I didn't like it as much as I thought I would. Trucking's just a job I need right now. And plus, with it, I get to travel."

_Why am I telling him all this? _Well, he already knew so much about her life. There probably wasn't much that could surprise him. But it was Lucifer she was telling it to.

"You don't have to do that."

Clara stepped away from him again, this time to go and sit on the sofa. She needed something solid under her now wobbly state.

"Sorry, no offense, '_Lucifer', _but I don't want to be your Queen of the underworld."

"That wasn't what I was asking."

"Then what _were _you asking? 'Cause, right now, it just seems like you're trying really hard to hit on me."

Sighing, he went and sat across from her.

"I need your help."

"What could the devil want with me?"

"For starters," he smiled cheerfully. "There is your expertise with the computer. You could help me track down some people I need to find."

"Who?"

"People."

Annoyingly, he didn't add anything else.

"Why can't you get your minions to help you?"

His smirk grew wider at the mention of the word 'minions'.

"Oh, them?" His expression darkened. "They're all a hapless bunch. Not much use to me with the kind of people I need to find."

"What if I refuse?"

"If you refuse the Devil?" Lucifer leaned back in the sofa, staring up at the ceiling. "Some things would happen that I wouldn't directly be responsible for." He had said so nonchalantly, so casually, as if he were making a comment on the weather instead of a possible repercussion of a wrong choice made, it still had a weight of deadliness to it that haunted her.

Clara shivered.

"If I help you, will you leave me alone?"

He met her pleading gaze.

"If you want. But I still believe your destiny lies greater than trucks and roads, and apartments, and Chicago. If you decided to keep helping me, who knows? Life might open up for you."

Clara shook her head, not liking the insinuation in his words.

"No thanks." She weighed her options. She already saw his ability to heal. Growing up, of course she had heard stories about Satan and the special 'powers' he held. But she had always ignored the stories because to her, Heaven, Hell, _all of it_ didn't exist. But now that she was face to face with the man himself...if she didn't agree, she would be getting herself killed. If she helped him though, what sort of entangled mess was she walking into?

Clara held her head in her hands.

"Who would I be looking for?"

He grinned.

"Sam and Dean Winchester."


	5. Difficulties

Clara sat at her new sofa, with its plush cushions, and new-leather smell, and thought hard. A job. An actual, proper job. As much as it killed her a little inside to admit, but an _interesting job!_ Tracking some brothers wouldn't be an easy task-there were what? Over eight billion people in the world? But she'd be able to do it no problem. In fact, just thinking about the time she would get to spend with her computer, hacking into all sorts of challenges and having to be creative in working around them, put that spark of fire behind her eyes again.

A challenge.

Yes. That was what she needed.

But what about Clinically Insane guy at twelve o'clock?

She looked up and there he was staring back at her. When her eyes locked into his, he grinned.

"Thinking hard there, Einstein?"

Clara rolled her eyes. Stuck inside a room with a stranger that was declaring himself to be the devil and sitting on the furniture he had personally purchased, rolling her eyes seemed like such a _domestic _thing to do. So normal. Ordinary.

That odd clash or amalgam or whatever you called it was unsettling. It did some awful things to her stomach just then.

"At least I have an actual brain to process actual thoughts. Unlike someone I know."

"Ouch." The smile remained firmly in place, perhaps growing just a fraction at her comment. "You know, I think I might like you."

Clara mimed gagging.

"Disgusting."

Now it was his turn to roll his eyes.

"Okay. Enough now. I waited and I'm done waiting. So," He leaned forward in his seat, searching for his answer in her brown eyes that probably-maybe-okay-most-definitely betrayed her interest in this job. "What'll it be? Stay here, and live a docile, boring good citizen little life with all the other little _ants,_" he spat the word 'ants', his face contorting in a way that reminded her of swallowing a lemon, or perhaps finding a cockroach under the bed, "...and always knowing that your alien boyfriend in that blue box of his is living it up in space without you, and forever suffering with that knowledge always beating down on your shoulders... ORRRR...actually forget about him and move on with your life and do something fun. With me."

"With you?" Clara hated how hopeful her tone sounded. Right then, she wanted nothing but to get away from this weirdo, and his weirdo fantasy. Stay safe and hidden from everyone else. Maybe not be so happy or even fulfilled, but, to put it in blind perspective, she would be _alive and surviving._

But there was something in the way he just looked at her. As if he was seeing through to her soul, and despite all the bad stuff she had tried her damndest to hide from the Doctor-like her cowardice whenever Danny had mentioned casually about someday wanting to marry her and her finding the idea so off-putting that she once seriously considered leaving him right then and there, or her desire to be in control of everything and everyone, sometimes including the Doctor, and secretly hating that lady at the coffee shop because she seemed to purposefully forgot each time Clara went there that she liked sugar with her tea, and once toying with the idea of getting her fired, or even just her now clear conscience when it came hurting somebody bad. Seeing all of that and..._despite _the mess that was Clara Oswald, looked at her as if he might actually like all of it.

All of it.

It was that part that did it for her. It made all the tense strands of existence loosen, and for her to finally, even if just fractionally, open up to him. The Devil. Best case scenario. Worst case? Some escaped loon playing with her.

He wasn't the Doctor projecting his own hopes for humanity onto her and expecting her to be everything he needed, or a retired soldier working as a maths teacher biding the time to tie her down to him, and keep her away from the Doctor and his 'dangerous lifestyle'.

None of that. At all.

No.

Lucifer, with his walled, 'If you disobey, I might have to kill you' green eyes, and ridiculously relaxed smile, was seeing her for who she was. It was a tad creepy the way he had spied on her. Beyond creepy, actually.

But looking at him now...she already knew her answer before she even said it.

If she could get a glimpse of that expression on his face at least once more, then working for him-a nut-wouldn't be so bad. She'd draw some lines. It'd be okay.

"I...Yes. Fine. I'll work for you." Before he could add some other annoying joke, she continued, "But I'd better be paid well. Judging by the amount of expensive furniture in here," she spared a quick survey of the room, "You seem to be rolling around in dough."

"That I am. But I'm not flashy."

He eyed her, and for a moment, she felt as if he was trying to tell her something important in that stare.

But whatever it was, she couldn't read minds. If he couldn't tell her, then what did she care?

"Doesn't matter. Just pay me well, and I'll forget how mad you are."

Lucifer gave another one of his wolfish grins. Clara sighed. Lucifer. Did she really have to call him that?

"Ooh. I like a woman who can talk business. So...Clara Oswald. Are you always business and no pleasure, or is that just because your other boy toy got himself killed?"

Clara stiffened. Whatever liking she had taken to Lucifer in her apartment was extinguished just as fast as it had been woken.

Careful to keep her facial muscles frozen, and her eyes dry, she said coolly, "I don't give two fucks if you're Lucifer or Henry VIII. You don't get to speak about Danny Pink. If you do, I will drop out of this job, and you can find another miserable soul to help you find who you're looking for. Understand?"

Lucifer only shrugged.

"Touched a nerve. I get it. I'll be careful next time..." A weird glint shined deep in his iris. "We've got a long day ahead of us, miss Oswald. I suggest you grab your laptop and turn it on."

"Oh, you want to start the search right now?"

He sighed.

"They could be anywhere right now. The sooner we start, the sooner we get to finding them."

"When I do, will you pay me then?" She didn't bother protesting. With rent and utilities draining her, she needed this job. And she needed the distraction it would happily provide.

"Yup. So I suggest you quit standing there, looking cute, and do your job." His wink softened the sting of his words. "Later, though, I want you to meet some associates of mine.

"Your 'minions' right?"

Lucifer nodded. A ghost of a smirk was still there on his lips. Lips. Idly, Clara wondered what they'd feel like with her own pressed on them.

Her eyes went as wide as saucers.

The blush that was there touched her naval, and the tips of her ears. She had actually thought about kissing this mad lunatic. Kissing him.

_And, _a voice in her head that sounded suspiciously like her own whispered, _doing all kinds of things with him. Fun things._

She freaked-now she was fiddling with her hair again. Twisting it into a bun, before deciding against it and putting it up into a ponytail.

_Just imagine what he could do to you._

Clara grimaced, finding it disturbing that instead of feeling put off by the danger surrounding this man, it only made her want to move closer to him. A minute ago she had hated him for his reckless words. Now...

_It's been a while. You could use the fun. Imagine it. Hacking into computers alongside him, him accidentally brushing a hand against yours...you noticing, and 'accidentally' brushing your arm with his...one thing leading to another until you're gasping underneath him...or on top, hips grinding against his...moaning with his lips on your-_

Clara hadn't realized she had just been standing there with her hands still up in her hair. They hovered there for a second longer, the ache in her arms forgotten in replace of another ache...a different kind of ache. One far more intense.

Lucifer cleared his throat, waving his hand in front of her face.

"Hello? Earth to Clara? You in a coma?"

Clara snapped out of it. She felt her muscles in her arm straining of being in the air so long. Embarrassed, she placed by her sides, forgetting about her hair. She felt it fall into a messy curtain around her.

_Shit. _

Lucifer waited a moment, pausing to admire the way her hair had fallen around her shoulders. From the dilated pupils, and the widened smirk, had he found her...hot?

Clara tried to clear away the images. They didn't go away. Great. Now she was all flustered.

This was Lucifer. Evil. She couldn't trust him. And there was absolutely no reason for her to pretend he wasn't evil. It didn't matter either way what he thought of her.

"You look sexy with your hair down like that...in waves." He murmured. He hadn't moved to touch her or anything. In fact, he just stood there with his arms stubbornly crossed, almost like he was deliberately remaining disconnected.

But he might as well have from the way she had to take an intake of breath from the tingling sensation in her arms, legs, and in her lower stomach.

"Thinking of anything in particular?" He asked, a knowing arch to his eyebrow.

Clara glared at him.

"Oh, shut up. I'll be right back. Stay right here." She muttered before storming past him, forcefully brushing her shoulder against his. The contact sent a shocking, electrifying zing everywhere, making the small hairs on her arms stand on end.

_Damn it. _

She hurried to her bedroom, and slammed the door behind her. Once it was closed, she leaned against the frame for support, not able to stop her rapid breathing.

"What in god's name am I doing?" she whispered to herself.

From further down the hall, in the living room, she could hear Lucifer yell, "God doesn't care if you have the hots for me or not. He's left the building. Good news for you, eh? At least you don't have a peeping tom on your back day in and day out. Now you're free to enjoy thinking of me in all my glory."

Clara groaned. This man was nuts...and she desperately wanted to jump his bones. Every fibre of her being screamed at her to do so.

But this was no man she was dealing with. This was Lucifer. The Devil. Or, she supposed, a cast-off angel. He was dangerous.

And she still couldn't help but think about good it would feel to have his hands run down her body.

Clara placed her head in her hands, and took a deep breath. She could do this. Work for the devil. She just...needed to work at a certain distance from him. Then she would be fine.

"Absolutely fine..." she mumbled. This was...going to be difficult.


	6. The Right Choice

**A/N: Finally updated! I apologize profusely for the long delay. Fanfic writers are the worst when it comes to updating, aren't they? From here on out, I'm going to try and update every Saturday, or Sunday at the latest. I just needed to get a schedule down, and the story a little organized. Thank you for all the reivews! You guys are the best-nothing makes me happier to read your guy's thoughts on a story. It's the greatest feeling in the world. **

**Here's the new chapter, hope y'all like it :) please send a quick review on your thoughts, I'd really appreciate it!**

With a heavy sigh, one that was neither weary, nor too enthusiastic, Clara booted up her computer with a certain lunatic peering over her shoulder.

"Sam and Dean Winchester, eh?" She murmured, ignoring how close he was to her.

"Bingo. If you can track 'em down in the next five minutes I'll be out of your hair in no time."

Clara scoffed.

"Five minutes? I can do it in two, given a few more details."

He clapped her on the back-eliciting an irritated growl from Clara. He winked at her.

"You're a clever one. But no. No more information."

"Why not?"

"I want you to find them for me. I didn't say anything about helping you out."

Without thinking, she smacked the hand he had left on her shoulder. Lucifer peered at her, surprised at her gumption.

"You're a real asshole, you know that?"

He shrugged.

"Sticks and stones, sweets. Been called many things before." His blue eyes struck thoughtful. "Although, I'd wager most of the names are true. What can you do?" He shrugged again, before once again staring at her screen. "Ignore that last comment about the five minute thing. You're clever, Oswald, but I know the Winchesters. Those puny little heads of theirs actually know how to stick their head in the sand."

Clara frowned at the use of 'puny little heads' but didn't comment.

Honing in on the newfound skills she'd acquired way back when her life first got flipped, turned upside down, she pulled down google and other search engines she could think of and began the search.

Her fingers flew over the keyboards, flying, almost dance-like in their dexterity. She almost laughed aloud thinking of a time when she would've been confused at the merest mention of a 'server platform' or 'programme' with that extra little 'e' at the end.

That whole wi-fi business had muddled her brain. Wi-fi. Was nothing so terrifying as a world-wide network that could incapacitate someone by the mere press of a button?

But that had been no problem for the Doctor, though. With a flash of that cheeky grin, and a wave of an awkwardly friendly hand, he had defeated those spoon-head things and their controller AND still had time for tea.

A sort of nostalgic ache shot through her, momentarily causing her to pause in her rapid typing.

She let out the quietest, faintest of sighs.

"What was that?"

She jumped, surprised to see Lucifer still hanging about.

"What was what?"

He gestured to her mouth.

"That weird little sigh you just did there?"

"It was nothing." He may know about her involvement with the Doctor, but she sure as hell wasn't going to let that stop her from keeping as much information from the weirdo as possible.

She made to return to her work, but he shut the lid of the computer over her hands. Glaring up at him, Clara opened her mouth to fire a retort at him but was silenced when he gave her a surprisingly admonishing look.

"You humans and your silly little infatuations. Don't you realize, Clara sweets, that he ain't ever coming back for you?"

She tried to pull her hands out from the temporary trap, but Lucifer only pressed more weight onto it, effectively keeping her still.

"I need no distractions for this. I promised you adventure, and you're going to get it. But you're not going to get it by pining after some absentee _friend," _he drawled, waiting for her reaction. When it appeared she wouldn't say anything, he continued. "Actually, you know what? You remind me of someone I know. A certain...idiot. This _idiot _had a hero complex. He would fight all the monsters, and save all the good folk yadda yadda yadda. But one day, this idiot's brother died in a fight. And you'd think this idiot would have learned to accept pain and loss as a natural, organic thing," Here, he leant onto her hand, making Clara wince at the sharp strain on her knuckles.

"But this idiot, and you'll find his name is very apt in accordance with his actions, made a deal with a demon to bring his brother back. He sold his soul, damning himself because of his loyalty. And this wasn't the first time either, Clara." He kept his gaze locked with hers, and for the first time, she noticed a kind of beating ferocity in his eyes, masked behind the tense cheekiness he had been throwing at her since they met. "There were other times...countless other times, where he would sacrifice everyone and everything around them to save this one, simple being. And each time he did, he would lose a part of himself that made our hero...well, a hero. He lost his integrity, and self-respect, and soon lost his brother's love for a time. But all the while, this idiot hero would keep stepping on others to meet his own ends. Eventually, he couldn't be called a hero because it wasn't true anymore. So, do you see why you cannot be distracted in this, Clara?"

_I could get out of this. I could ditch this freak and go back to England._

"Yes," she lied. "No pining, gotcha. It's annoying."

_Wait til he's asleep, leave quietly in the night...catch a bus to the nearest airport, book a flight and..._

Clara mentally cursed.

_And then what? Go back to teaching, and pretend her time in the TARDIS never happened?_

"I've seen the way you act, Clara. The way Paul told it-Paul's the one you saved in the alley by the way-you jumped off _that-" _He pointed to her window and the fire escape beyond it. "-fire escape to save his life. You didn't have to, but you did. You were willing to take up a shitty paying trucking job just to get a dose of something new."

Clara narrowed her eyes at him. This loon was right. She'd promised herself a quiet life in America-a half-decent shot at starting afresh with the madder parts behind her. But at the first sign of trouble, what had she done?

_Jumped out of bloody fire-escape._

"I can see this-all of this-" he gestured to the curtains, her tables, her new sofas-everything he had bought in token of his so-called gratitude. "-doesn't matter. Why should it? It's just stuff, isn't it? No. You want something more. A challenge."

He pressed down hard, making her scream in agony, keeping the pressure on her hand for a minute, then two, all the while studying the way her face contorted with the pain. It was a few more minutes before he decided to let up.

Tears had sprang to Clara's eyes.

_Even if he is right, what the hell have I gotten myself into?_

Before he could do it again, she pulled her hands in toward her stomach, triumphant when she was no longer in his control.

"You're a lunatic, you know that? A stark, raving lunatic!" She yelled at him before getting up, and whirling around, and making her way to the door. Before he could grab her, she opened it and fled, running down the hall, absolutely determined not to cry.

It was only when she reached the bottom of the stairwell, and had looked behind her, she realized that he hadn't been chasing her at all. Odd.

She paused on the step.

Inspecting her hands, she concluded that apart from the dull throb that was now welcomed in her knuckles, they were okay.

"What _am _I doing?" She muttered, annoyed at how pathetic she sounded. The echo in this part of the building didn't help. She waited a couple of seconds before sitting down on one of the steps. If he wasn't chasing her, then there was the sure bet he was arrogant enough to believe she would come back. If he was doing that, then she was safe on the stairs. He was probably relaxing on that stupid sofa he'd bought for her.

Lucifer. Ridiculous name. Whatever lightshow he pulled back in the living room, that was probably just some cheap trick. As for the healing itself...

Clara lifted her shirt, again amazed at the normal-looking skin beneath the fabric. No stitches. No scars. Nothing. It was as if she hadn't been stabbed in the first place.

That was the inexplicable bit.

All of time and space and not once had the Doctor and Clara encountered the 'devil'. There had been a myriad, a god even (well, an individual with god-like abilities) and Robin Bloody Hood at one point. If Robin Hood could be real, then who was the say God or the devil couldn't be, either?

Clara rubbed her temple, wishing for nothing more than her favourite jumper and some tea.

_This is idiotic. _

It was _her _apartment, and _her _home. She couldn't let this...person? Angel? Whatever he was, she couldn't let him just take it away from her like that. Or hurt her again.

No.

She needed to do something, and she needed to do it now.

She bit her lip.

"Screw it," Clara mumbled under her breath. Forcing herself back onto her feet, she climbed the flight she'd ran down, and opened the door to the hallway her apartment was in.

Up ahead, just a few feet, stood _him._

_Wait 'til I wipe that insolent smirk off your face..._

Clara marched up to him, deliberately ignoring the fact that her heart had started beating rather erratically again.

"Listen," she stated when she reached him. "I don't care if you're the bloody devil or some mobster wannabe needing to get his revenge on somebody. You remember what you just did back there?" Clara held up her sore hand, noticing with dismay that the redness was going away. Hastily, she placed it on her hip. "You don't do that again. Ever." Had her voice quivered?

"And if I do?" He kept his gaze on her, still obviously amused by her.

"Then I'll just leave. I'll pack up my bags and run."

"Why do you think that'll stop me?"

"You need my help. Sam and Dean Winchester, yeah? You told me they're hard to find. If you can't find them on your own, then you'd be useless without me."

He thought for a moment.

"You'd never leave here."

"What makes you think I won't?"

Without warning, he grabbed hold of her hand, the sore one, and held it between his own. Clara struggled, fighting her way out of his iron grip.

He sighed.

"I'm trying to help, you idiot."

An icy sensation spread through her knuckles, cooling the throbbing sting that she had felt only seconds earlier.

"What the-"

He let her hand go.

"See? All better now?"

Clara examined her hand. The redness had completely disappeared, along with the discomforting soreness that had accompanied it.

With a huff she crossed her arms, backing an inch away from him.

"That doesn't answer my question."

"Examine your actions, Clara. You ran out doing what every frightened little _animal _would do. But," he shrugged. "-you noticed I wasn't chasing you, and instead of getting out of here as you keep suggesting to yourself you should do, you stopped. And _came back_."

She frowned, having enough of this.

"But that was only because-"

"-of what, exactly? To kick me out?" He stepped into the hallway, moving to the side so that the entrance to her apartment stood wide open. "Look. I'm out. What's next in your brilliant plan?"

"I..." She trailed off, realizing for the second time in an hour that he was right. "I...I hadn't gotten that far yet."

Her uncertainty hung in the air between them like an awkwardly posted 'KEEP OUT' sign on a prison gate. Its instructions obviously, and sensibly written and yet...with a dose of irony she swore the universe loved to dish out, never really followed.

"Well?" Lucifer mimicked her body language, crossing his arms, and sticking out his hip in a defiant, clearly demanding way. "Aren't you going to improvise at least?"

Without another word to him, she walked past him into her apartment, slamming the door shut behind him.

She heard a muffled, "I'll be in the apartment above when you're ready," on the other side.

An cognizant memory of that same sound of footsteps she heard above her a few weeks back on the night when she'd stupidly saved a stranger from some psychopaths momentarily filled her ears again.

"I very much doubt that!" She yelled, only to be ignored when she heard the already fading _thummfp _of his shoes walk off.

She groaned.

Of course that was his apartment. That sociopath had probably been watching her weeks before that night. The question was: why hadn't she noticed sooner?

She'd been too focused on forgetting about England to pay any attention to her surroundings.

Clara winced at the thought.

She was in America! The land of Hollywood, and opportunity, Barack Obama and...and...other things. Why wasn't she exploring this new home of hers?

No more mad-get-stabbed-in-an-alley-as-payment-for-saving-a-stranger stuff for her, nevermind what that lunatic said about it.

_I'm not mad. I wouldn't run back to a psycho. _

_'__**Yes you would.' **_She heard his voice whisper in her mind.

"Oh, god, just shut up." She fetched kettle from one of the cupboards, determined to relax. She put the kettle on the stove, turned the switch, and waited. She

Browsing the shelves, she discovered a wackload of food in the cupboards. On one cheerios cereal box, she found a note that read: **No need to thank me. The thanks is all mine. **

She blew out a puff of air from her cheeks.

"Who does he think he is?" She mumbled, wondering not for the first (or last) time if she really was going insane, and everything that had happened in her life-the doctor, Danny, Lucifer-was just one fantastical dream.

She kept up her search-her fingers grazing over each item like a hungry squirrel in search of a nut-and exclaimed in satisfaction when she finally found it.

**Twinings Green Tea.**

"Aha!" She grabbed the box, ripped open the package, and tossed a a teabag in a mug she procured hanging above the stove.

Within a few minutes, she had her tea ready, and had plopped down on her new sofa to relax.

She sipped the hot contents, flipping on the television.

It wasn't until she had clicked through the entirety of what was available on the cable, (another note had been posted on the television screen: **Cable. You're welcome**) that she finally admitted how bored she already was just sitting there.

_Whatever you do, don't open your laptop. You're not working for him. _

Clara fidgeted.

Some random infomercial popped on the screen, and she stared at it, half-listening to the guy shout about vacuums or something at her.

_He's insane. What he did..._

But he had only been telling her not to get distracted. And he healed her right afterward.

_Still. That's no excuse. _

If he could afford the new furniture, the cable, and all the groceries, she could expect a decent payout if she finished the job, right?

_Finish? You can't finish something you've never begun._

Clara put her head in her hands, annoyed at how her mind kept going back to one face, and her body's reaction when she thought about him.

No. She wasn't going to budge.

…

He was observing the city-so compact, so bright, and yet so deliciously barren-when he heard the soft _tap-tap-tap _on the door.

He smiled to himself.

"Are you there? Look, you better drag your butt out of here, I found them. It took a while, but I did. So pay up."

He let himself chuckle.

Clara Oswald. He knew he had made the right choice.


	7. Connecticut

**A/N: Last week, I saw the episode 'Face the Raven', you know, the cheerful one where Clara exits the show, written by Sarah Dollard directed by so and so etc. And it was sad. Clara has really grown on me as a character-and I think it's safe to say she is one of my favourite companions (right next to the Ponds, and River). I just loved the way Jenna portrayed her this season...She was awesome :) And I could go on and on about why I think Clara is such a great companion but then I'd just end up babbling. But yes-Clara Oswald will definitely be missed by this person. :(**

Clara hadn't been allowed in. Well, actually, she hadn't really been given the chance to go in the first place because by the time she had finished her sentence, he had flown out the door and grabbed her hand, forcing her to follow him down the hallway.

"Where are we going?" He asked, opening the door to the stairwell.

Clara clutched her laptop, cursing Lucifer at the speed at which he raced down the steps. At this rate, if he wasn't careful, she was more than certain to trip and break her neck.

"Can you...slow down...?" Clara panted, trying, and failing, to keep up with him.

"No." They continued running down the steps, heading for, Clara could only presume, the exit on the last floor that led out into the city streets.

Lucifer ran, making sure to keep a firm grip on Clara.

"Now. Where are they?"

"Connecticut."

"_Where in Connecticut?"_

_"_New London."

"Just be a tad more specific." He muttered, the irritation in his tone evident.

Clara smirked. She'd enjoyed the reactions she was having out of him. It was, in a word, fun.

"Fine. New Haven."

Researching the Winchesters hadn't been too difficult, though the fair bit of history she had gleaned from old police records didn't exactly hold the brothers in their favor.

Apparently, their mother had died in a house fire, and ever since that particular traumatic moment, they had never kept a fixed residence. She noticed that their school records never went back more than a month at each school they were enrolled in. After high school, Sam had gone on to Law school, whereas Dean had...disappeared from public records.

Sam never finished law school, though. About a year in, he left after his girlfriend Jessica died in another house fire. It was an odd coincidence, but when Sam disappeared from public records after that incident, and only showed up again when arrested with his brother Dean for the assault of an officer in one county jail, Clara figured that something was up with the two of them.

She had difficulty tracking them after the arrest. Technically, they were still on the run, which explained their frequent uses of aliases. There had been no trace of a 'Sam Higgins' or a 'Dean Mathews' in the FB.I database, but she sort of knew that already. It didn't hurt to double check, though.

As insane as the Winchester's history was to the public eye, Clara had stumbled onto a website that was linked to a series of books written by some obscure known as 'Carver Edlund'. The books hadn't sold very well-in fact, only about 12 copies existed.

The books frequently referenced two supernatural 'hunters'-Dean and Sam Winchester. She didn't find out much about the books (no online copies) except that it had collected a small, but passionate fanbase.

On one particular website ( ) there had been a 'fanfic' written by series fan samlicker81 that contained...wincest. Clara hadn't known what that exactly entailed until she had read the fic, and afterward...she had been thoroughly disturbed by the writer's imagery.

She shuddered. That writing piece had described the brothers 'escapades' with such detail that it brought all the romance novels she'd read as a teen to shame.

'_Nope. Not going to think about it.' _

After that, it had taken only a couple of searches with the tags: winchester, grave yards, etc. Before she hacked into the video feeds in New London (haha she got the joke) and found Mathews and Higgins, or rather the Winchester brothers.

For a newbie like her into the field of hacking, it was still pretty darn impressive.

"Perfect," Lucifer nodded, stopping on the steps so abruptly, she smacked right into him, almost toppling them both down the flight of stairs before he managed to balance the two. "Wow. You must really like me to fake a fall like that."

Clara scowled.

"Shut up. I had no warning you were going to pull a move like that."

"I need to know-" He looked directly in her eyes then, searching for some kind of hidden meaning.

"What?" She cut him off, mocking his urgent tone. "'_What do I need to know?'"_

"Are you in one hundred percent?"

"What?"

"You heard me, and right now I do not have the patience to repeat the same question to a soybean brain like yours."

"Hey-"

"So-answer me. Are you in, or are you out?"

"Enough with the riddles!" Clara had had enough with this lunatic. "I thought I made it obvious-I finished your little scavenger hunt, and to be perfectly honest-it wasn't very exciting at all."

Lucifer raised a brow at that but said nothing. Instead, he simply let go of her hand, shrugged, and starting backing off down the stairs.

"Okay...If that's how you want to play it."

She decided against taking the obvious bait-because, come on, it was so obvious what he was trying to do. It wasn't going to work on her.

"You do realize that reverse-psychology doesn't work on me, right?"

He smirked, but that may as well have been his answer.

Clara sighed. She would have to let him down gently.

"Listen-it was...interesting meeting you, ah, _Lucifer." What kind of name was that? _She thought for the millionth time. "But...I have a job to get to, and...I don't have time for games. You said you would pay me once I tracked them down so..."

Still nothing. Not a word from him. She watched him continue down the steps as if she hadn't said a word to him. His footsteps echoed in the hallway-squeaks on the cement whenever the soles of his shoes would turn a corner to another flight.

"Wait!" She called. "What about my pay?" His continued silent treatment towards her was getting unnerving.

There was that job in the morning...She'd have to go to bed early, wake up early, and be up and on the road by eight.

It might be fun. To travel the highways by herself, with nothing but the radio for company. Yeah, she could picture it. Jamming to some old tunes while she drove, and having all that time to think, with the long stretches of time in between breaks.

"Wait! Wait! Wait!" Clara ran down the steps, taking them down two steps at a time. "Wait! Okay, you can pay me later. Don't worry about that." She saw him a couple of levels below her. He looked up when she called for him a second time, grinned at her, before continuing down the next flight. She was going to kill him.

Running to catch up, it was then she realized how much an idiot she had been. Of course. It was annoying, but if she wanted him to stop ignoring her, she was going to have to declare her choice.

"Fine!" She yelled. "I'm in! 100 bloody percent."

With those words, she saw him halt, and look up at her.

"Knew you would." He ran up to meet her. "So...I have a plan."

The excited fervor in his eyes, the confident assertion, and the unbelievable annoyance in the assertion that he knew she would eventually change her mind all reminded her one person.

But she had moved on-at least that was what she liked to think. Regardless of any of her previous ties, there was this...stranger in front of her who knew about who she was, and who the Doctor was...

It would be a shame if she never found out _how _he knew.

"What plan?"

"It's a surprise."

She groaned. "I hate surprises."

"Well...I suppose you're going to hate this one, then."

"What does that-" She started to say before she was cut off by a force knocking the air out of her lungs.

She gasped for air, and tried to grasp his shoulder, only to stumble forward, and trip onto...pavement?

_'Never mind the pavement. Just focus on breathing.' _So slowly, she closed her eyes, and tried to ignore the constricting pain in her chest. She focused on allowing air back into her lungs-forcing herself to calm down, and not panic, she gulped in an intake of oxygen, before allowing herself to breathe back out through her mouth. Again. She breathed in, and let all the building pressure in her lungs out through the second breath. And again.

She did this for several moments, keeping her hands firmly on the ground to steady herself. The pavement was cool and slick underneath her palm.

_'Relax.' _She told herself repeatedly until the knotting panic had disappeared replaced by...confusion.

Having sufficiently steadied her breathing and finally worked her lungs again to work, Clara opted to stand, and ask Lucifer what the hell had just happened.

But just as quickly as the words had formed on her tongue, she stopped herself when she noticed the streetlamps, and the sidewalks, and the biting breeze that touched and raised goose bumps on her skin.

She was outside. And judging by the complete lack of grime that surrounded her from the usual that surrounded her neighborhood, she was quite far from Chicago.


	8. You Ready?

Ch. 8 of: All I Have To Do Is Dream

**A.N: Hey, guys! Sorry for leaving you all in the dark about this story. My bad. Just had a really bad case of writer's block, and we'll, I'm trash. I suck haha But no, thanks again for all the reviews on this so far! I really appreciate it :) Thank u and hopefully you won't hate this chapter. I'm a little rusty, so please excuse any OOC moments. And sherlockedbyben, your support for this story is unparalleled. Thanks a bunch! Everyone, go check out this story: The Storyteller and the Impossible Girl! Amazing!**

First rule of disorientation: Panic. Go absolutely bananas. Run around in desperation until your lungs burn and your throat aches.

Do everything that's within your limits to terrify anybody that's within your vicinity. You're lost and scared. You've got no peace of mind. Why should they have theirs?

Second rule: Don't let the quiet determination of a calm temperament take hold of you. Panic is good. That lovely little thing they call stability-bad.

Finally, your third rule of disorientation: Look everyone you meet directly in the eyes and ask them where you are. If you really want to freak them out, ask them who you are. If they can answer the first, surely they have it within themselves to answer your second, right?

One last tip: Don't hide out. Make yourself public. Broadcast your fears.

Good luck.

...

Clara allowed these insane thoughts precisely ten seconds of free reign. Ten seconds of irrational thinking, of wanting to run around and scream in panic because she didn't know where she was.

In just a moment she was a little girl again looking for her mother. She remembered vividly reaching out for a hand that wasn't there, and being horrified to find out that the hand that she did eventually grab wasn't the same she's been holding just a few minutes before.

Ten terrifying ticks of her internal clock to focus all her energy in feeling scared. Here, terror was her friend.

But after the ten seconds passed and her intuitive alarm clock rang, she stifled the screaming girl inside her, the crippling doubt and insecurity, and instead forced herself to run with the logic.

What had Lucifer promised he'd pay her to do?

Find the Winchesters. And where had she found them?

~New Haven. Connecticut.~

Besides, there was that fish smell in the air. The smell of salt that was carried with the light breeze. Yeah, she was definitely in New Haven.

She stared at the warehouse in front of her.

New Haven was just like any other city. It had it's own shops, bookstores, and grocery shops. Universities. A tourist centre, of course. A pier to walk along. A park to walk your dog, or walk your kid.

Clara chuckled to herself. From what her research told her, New Haven was a nice little town.

So why was she standing in front of a creepy old building?

The rational part of herself knew why. It had long ago deduced that if this loon really was Lucifer-then pinpointing a few guys couldn't be too hard for him.

"You owe me." She muttered to herself before straightening her clothes. If she had known she'd be transported to a whole other state in the country, specifically, to a city with a body of water nestled by it, she would have dressed a little warmer.

The comfy shorts and t-shirt she had on now didn't exactly cut it in this weather.

Not for the first time, and she had this weird feeling it wasn't going to be the last time either, she wondered what she was walking into.

But hey-the inside of that warehouse had to be warmer than standing out in this abysmal weather.

She rubbed her hands against her arms, cursing the thin cotton fabric of her shirt. Okay. She had no choice. To the warehouse she'd have to go.

...

"You really think I knew it was her?"

Sam rolled his eyes at his brother.

"Yeah, Dean. I really do."

"S'not my fault she just happens to be gorgeous."

Sam struggled against the rope that was biting into his wrist. Someday-and he sincerely hoped it was sooner rather than later-Dean would walk past a woman in a tight skirt and not do everything in his power to get into her pants, or skirt, as this was the case now.

God, if only his brother could stop thinking with his dick.

"You're thinking that this is all my fault, right?" Dean sighed. He sounded tired. Resigned, even. Maybe the guy was actually learning to reflect. "Well, you're right."

"Dean-can we not do this now? They've got Judith, and if we don't get out of here..."

"Yeah, I know. We've got a deadline to stick to. Get out of here. Save the girl. Move on to the next thing."

"What's that supposed to mean?" Sam quit struggling to listen to Dean. He couldn't believe what he was hearing. They had been drugged, gagged, and tied together. If they didn't get out of their restraints then a very nice girl would be killed and it would be all their fault. Story of their life basically.

"I mean...Hell, What do I mean?" Dean sighed again. "I just...this whole thing is crazy. We keep doing the same old thing and for what? This? Getting tied up for the umpteenth time? You know what? This sucks."

But Dean suddenly felt the need to voice his opinions now? If he wanted a heart-to-heart fine. Good for him. But they needed to save the girl first before they could do anything else. Besides, they were wasting time talking.

However, Sam only muttered, "Well, no shit." Yes, he was annoyed. Yes, he was pissed off. But that was only because he knew what his brother was going to say next.

"And you know what else sucks? The fact that I have to clean up after all your messes."

Sam rolled his eyes.

"I've been doing that for your whole life Sammy. You don't understand what I had to give up. I didn't get a childhood. I didn't get any of that apple-pie shit you had when you ran away."

"Oh, boo-hoo, Dean. So your life is hard. So what. We got a job to do. Yeah, it sucks. But no one said it was going to be easy. If you want to sign out now, fine. I'll clean up my own mess."

"I'm not saying that..." Since they were back to back in the dark with just the bare amount of sunlight that filtered through from one of the above ground windows, when Dean tensed, Sam could feel it. "All I'm saying is that it would be nice if I didn't have to constantly watch you all the time. And me screwing up just this once...Well, I should be excused, frankly."

"Dean?" Just this once? Did Dean really think he was a saint or something?

"What?"

"Shut up and get us out of here."

How ever Dean had reacted to those words, Sam couldn't tell. But it did work in effectively getting his brother to shut up and helping him to untie themselves so that was all that really mattered, he supposed.

So that's what they did for the next few minutes. Silently, but hyper-focused, they concentrated on unwinding the ropes that held their wrists together.

It was some time before they both realized it was fruitless.

"See, this is why you don't get involved with Amazon demons. They're good with their hands." Dean mumbled grumpily.

"I wouldn't know."

"They are. You should see them in the bedroom. There's this trick they can do with their tongue, after they've already tied you up and-"

"-Stop. Stop. I don't want to hear about you and some Amazon in the bedroom. I'm good, thanks."

Dean shrugged.

"I can't help having a spicy sex life."

"Dude. Seriously?"

"What?"

"Shut up."

"You're just jealous."

"No, I'm not-"

"Yeah, you are. That's why you're annoyed with me for scoring while you got none."

"No, I'm annoyed that when you're supposed to be helping me find a way of putting Lucifer back in his cage you hook up with the first chick you see."

"Hey. It's not my fault she turned out to be psycho."

"But I'm just saying-if you hadn't even slept with her in the first place, none of this would be happening right now. So thanks, Dean."

"...You're welcome..."

"Dean!"

He suppressed an amused snort.

"Ok, ok. Sorry for calling you out on your lack of game, you nerd."

"No, no, no-do you hear that?" Sam frowned. "Did you just call me a nerd?"

Dean ignored Sam, instead choosing to listen to whatever Sam had heard.

Nothing. No...hang on.

Squeaking. The squeaking of shoes on cement.

Someone was in there with them.

"Hey-do you think it's the crazy Amazon chick?" Dean whispered. He'd already formed a plan if it was her.

See, every time any Wannabe Big Bad came and tried their best to torture them (it was adorable, really, at this point in their lives), they would always make the same mistake of talking to them first. They would divulge to the brothers their Grand Plans for world domination or whatever it was the freaks wanted, and then elect to attempting to kill them.

However, it was usually at that point that either himself or Sam had already loosened their restraints and by then it was just a matter of keeping the Big Bad talking, distracting them, before the other one crept up and killed them.

It was like clockwork, honestly.

So of course Dean Winchester had a plan.

"Maybe. I don't know. Wasn't she wearing like ten inch heels, though?"

"Yeah. She was."

"Alright. Maybe this is just one of her henchmen?"

Dean couldn't help rolling his eyes. Sammy, as grown-up as he was now, still talked as if he were five.

"Yes, Mr. Bond," He retorted, feigning a bad Russian accent. "Her henchmen as you say have already got us surrounded."

"Dean. Seriously. If it is one of her...minions..." Sam paused, knowing that this word was just as bad as 'henchmen'. "Oh...Shut up."

"Hey, I wasn't going to say anything-"

"You keep the guy talking okay?"

"What? Are we playing good victim/bad victim now? Which one am I?"

"Just shut up and be ready to distract…" Sam grunted as he bit into the rope to try and loosen it up. His teeth sunk into the rough material, but no matter which way he pulled, the damn knot just wouldn't untie. Man, Dean was right. That Amazon chick really knew her stuff.

The squeaking grew louder as it neared. Whomever it was, Dean thought, if they were trying to be sneaky they were doing a pretty suck-ass job at it.

He could be sneaky if he wanted to be.

He squinted in the dim light, trying to discern any tangible shape. He could spot a few empty crates a few feet ahead—very old and run down judging by the darkened hue of the wood.

If he were his nerd brother Sam, he could probably tell someone just exactly how old that wood was, given the right microscope or whatever geeky gizmo Sammy carried with him.

In the faint light of the enormous room where each little sound echoed—he swore he could hear some sort of leaky pipe somewhere behind them both—he could make out the singular shape of someone approaching them.

"Hey!" Dean called out, probably startling whomever it was that was stalking them in the dark. "Yeah, you. Way over there. Hi! You probably already know who I am, right? Your perky little boss tell you about me and my brother?"

"Brother and I…" Sam corrected absentmindedly.

Dean scowled. "Shhh. I'm talking here." He noted that the squeaking had stopped. Yeah, whoever it was had not expected that.

"She probably didn't tell you about my mad skills in the bedroom. I don't want to brag, but you know, they don't call me Dean fucking Winchester for nothing."

Sam rolled his eyes. Maybe he should have done the talking. Judith was probably scared out of her wits by now, and it probably didn't help that they were taking so damn long to rescue her. Poor Judith.

Unexpectedly, both boys heard the unmistakable sound of a girlish giggle.

They frowned.

"Yeah. You're just as douchey as I remember." Came a familiar English lilt.

Dean groaned. Had that Bella chick risen from the dead to taunt them again?

"Do you recognize her voice, Dean?" Sam muttered, still working on the rope.

"Yeah. It's that Bella chick, right? Isn't she supposed to be in hell?"

"No, Dean. You seriously need to work on your accents. She's that woman from Blackpool we met back in Chicago, remember?"

That caught Dean off guard. The figure ahead remained still.

THAT was crazy chick?

"No way. That's impossible."

"I know but…crazier things have happened."

"What the hell is she doing here?"

Before Sam could respond, the figure in the shadows stepped forward and made its way towards them until it stopped in a patch of sunlight.

And lo and behold….there she was. Crazy chick. The chick that had literally jumped off a fire escape to save some low-end demon's ass.

The sunlight that filtered through—clouds of dust swirling in the air like minutiae dancers—illuminated her. She was clad in what looked like pyjama shorts and a simple cotton tee. He appraised her, taking in the wary brown eyes and the shoulder-length, slightly messy brown hair before glancing down to find a pair of cheap black-soled sneakers.

He snorted.

"You know, you're just proving my theory by being her."

She raised her brow as she responded.

"And what theory is that?"

"That you're crazy."

She rolled her eyes.

"I'm not the one that's tied up."

"True, but hey-I'm not the one that's stalking the me."

She rolled her eyes.

"I'm not stalkin' you."

Sam had long quit trying to escape.

"Then what are you doing here?" He spoke up, curious.

She shrugged.

"I was just in the neighbourhood."

"Oh, really?" Dean's clear-cut laughter rang out in the warehouse. "So you travelled hundreds of miles to some port-side town and randomly go strolling through empty warehouses?"

Crazy chick placed her hand to her chin in a faux-thoughtful pose and nodded.

"Yep. Sounds about right."

"Hey—any chance you can let us out of here?" Insane or not, Judith was still being held up somewhere and Sam was not about to let her die.

"Sam, don't trust her. She's probably working for Crowley. Meeting her twice ain't a coincidence." Sam could be a dope sometimes. He was too trusting when it came to people. Look how much he trusted Ruby. THAT mistake had blew up in all their faces.

"If she was here to kill us, she would have done so already." As if for confirmation, he turned to crazy chick and nodded at her. "Right?"

She nodded.

"Oh, yeah. That's reassuring…" Dean mumbled under his breath. Of course, even that ended up echoing loudly.

Crazy Chick huffed, crossing her arms.

"Relax, I'm not here to kill you. I'm here to help you."

"What?" Both boys uttered in unison.

"I looked you both up. You're not real F.B.I agents, are you? Sam Higgins? Dean Mathews? Really? Do you realize how easy that stuff is to search up? There's no sign of either of you two anywhere on the internet or any database for that matter." She approached them again, this time stopping just short in front of them. She knelt down, and as Dean watched her suspiciously, took Sam's bound wrists in her hands, and began to carefully untie the rope. "But...Did you know…..If you look up 'Winchester' with your names you find all sorts of things."

"Really?" Sam didn't bother hiding his surprise. "What did you find?"

"This and that. Did you know there's a series of books written about you two? About all sorts of mad things. Demons. Angels. Hunting down all these monsters." She had loosened up Sam's rope. "It couldn't be true, could it?"

Dean sighed. Judging by her tone, this chick already knew the truth. His guess was that she was just gauging them both for their reaction.

"I can take it from here." Sam removed his hands from—what was her name again? Clara?—hers.

"Alright, then."

"How did you find us?" Sam wondered as he finally untied the rope and freed his hands. Immediately, he went to work on the rope around his ankles.

Clara—yes, it was Clara. Clara something. He couldn't really recall her last name—smirked.

"I'm good with computers. I tracked your credit transactions."

It was Dean's turn to huff, "We used fake names."

Clara shrugged.

"Like I said, I'm good with computers."

"Right. And so you travelled all this way from Chicago just to help out some fake F.B.I agents?"

Clara sighed, before starting on Dean's ropes.

"No, I didn't come all this way just to help out some fake F.B.I cops."

"Then what?"

She paused. Whatever it was she was hiding, it didn't look like she wanted to give away anything.

"I read those books, you know. The ones by…."

Sam cut in, "Carver Edlund."

Clara nodded. She was starting to like this Sam. At least he had the decency not to call her crazy to her face unlike his brother.

"Yes. Him. And from what I've read, it looks like you've both been through a lot."

"Oh, please." Dean rolled his eyes. "Don't tell me you actually believe all that crap."

"Kinda don't, to be honest. But…I thought about that night. The night I met you both. And then I read a chapter on Edlund's home computer and…"

…

Clara focused on unknotting Dean's wrists. She hadn't told Lucifer any of what she was telling both brothers. About hacking into Carver Edlund's home computer and finding a new chapter in a new book he was writing. She didn't think it'd be relevant.

At least, she didn't need him to be encouraged into thinking she wanted any of this. She'd left England for a reason, damnit.

So when she told these boys about hacking into some random author's computer and discovering that that night she had met them had been written into this story of the Winchester's life, and that her name, 'CLARA OSWALD' had been typed into the page with her own backstory involved, well…she couldn't just back out now.

Especially when she had listened onto their conversation in the warehouse. From Lucifer's lightshow back in her living room to that weird moment in Edlund's computer, this was something bigger she was now a part of.

She didn't know what Lucifer's great plan was, but apparently, meeting the Winchester's in this warehouse was a part of it. She just hoped she was getting it right with her assumption that she was to somehow help them, and not actually kill them, secret ninja-style.

Once she finished with Dean's roped wrists, she stood and brushed her knees off.

"So? You two ready?"

"For what?" Sam asked. He towered above her, having freed himself after Clara's help.

Clara looked up at him and grinned. Alright, she'd admit it to herself. Staying in Chicago to become a truck driver was a daft move on her part. There wasn't much excitement in it for her.

"You know, save whoever Judith is."

Besides, she missed this part of her travels with the Doctor. Getting to run around and save people. That was the fun part.

Lucifer must have known what he was doing if he sent her to them, instead of simply showing up himself. Maybe he needed her to spy on them.

Whatever it was, she would do it. As long as it didn't involve any killing, then she would go along with this mysterious plan of his.

After all, he still owed her for finding these two in the first place.

"Well? You two ready?"

…


End file.
